a  n  n  a 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

Nona   Bridge 


M.  1 1 'RICE   MAETERLINCK 


MON  NA    VAN  NA 

A     PLAY     IN     THREE     ACTS 


TRANSLATED   BY 

ALEXIS  IRENEE  DU  PONT  COLEMAN 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
HARPER  5r  BROTHERS 
PUBLISHERS  *  MCMV 


Copyright,  1903,  by  HARPBR  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  ntervtd. 
Published  September,  1903. 


CAST    OF    CHARACTERS 

GUI  DO  COLONNA  .     .     .  Commander  of  the  garri- 

,  son  of  Pisa. 

MARCO  COLONNA  .     .     .  Father  of  Guido. 
PRINZIVALLE     ....  Captain  in  the  service  of 

Florence. 

TRIVULZIO Commissary   of   the  Re- 
public of  Florence. 

BORSO Lieutenant  to  Guido. 

TORELLO Lieutenant  to  Guido. 

VEDIO Secretary  to  Prinzivalle. 

VANNA Wife  of  Guido. 

Nobles,  soldiers,  peasants,  men  and  women  of  the 
city,  etc. 

SCENE. — Acts  I.  and  III.,  at  Pisa;  Act  II.,  in  the 
camp  outside  the  walls. 


TIME. — End  of  the  fifteenth  century. 


MONNA    VANNA 


MONNA    VANNA 


ACT     I 

SCENE. — A  hall  in  the  palace  of  GUIDO 
COLONNA.  Discovered:  GUIDO  and  his 
lieutenants,  BORSO  and  TORELLO,  near 
an  open  window,  from  which  a  view  is 
gained  of  the  country  about  Pisa. 

GUIDO 

'  HE  extremity  to  which  we 
are  reduced  has  forced  the 
Council  to  confess  disas- 
ters that  they  have  long 
hidden  from  me.  The  two 
armies  sent  to  our  aid  by 
Venice  are  themselves  besieged  by  the 
Florentines,  one  at  Bibbiena,  the  other  at 
Elci.  The  passes  of  the  Vernia,  of  Chiusi 
and  Montalone,  Arezzo,  and  all  the  defiles 
of  the  Casentine  are  in  the  hands  of  the 
enemy.  We  are  cut  off  from  the  whole 
[i] 


MONNA    VANNA 


world,  given  over  defenceless  to  the  wrath 
of  Florence,  that  pardons  only  when  she 
fears.  Our  bands  and  the  populace  are  yet 
ignorant  of  these  defeats;  but  rumors  fly 
among  them,  more  and  more  disquieting. 
What  will  they  do  when  they  shall  know 
the  truth?  Their  anger  and  their  despair- 
ing terrors  shall  fall  upon  us  and  upon  the 
Council.  They  are  stirred  to  the  verge  of 
madness  by  three  months  of  siege,  of  famine, 
and  of  hardships  the  like  of  which  scarce 
a  city  hath  ever  borne.  The  only  hope 
that  still  held  them  submissive  despite  their 
sore  trouble  is  about  to  crumble  before  their 
eyes — and  then  there  is  naught  but  revolt, 
the  insweeping  of  the  foe,  and  so  an  end  of 
Pisa! 

BORSO 

My  men  have  nothing  left — not  an  arrow, 
not  a  bullet ;  and  you  shall  search  every  tun 
in  the  vaults  without  finding  an  ounce  of 

powder. 

TORELLO 

It  is  two  days  since  I  fired  our  iast  shot 
against  the  batteries  of  San  Antonio  and 

[2] 


MONNA    VANNA 


the  tower  of  Stampace.  Now  that  naught 
is  left  them  but  their  swords,  even  the 
Stradiotes  refuse  to  go  upon  the  ramparts. 

BORSO 

You  may  see  from  hence  the  breach  that 
Prinzivalle's  cannon  have  made  in  the  walls 
our  Venetian  allies  were  defending.  It  is 
fifty  ells  in  width — a  flock  of  sheep  might 
pass  through  it  with  ease.  No  man  can 
make  a  stand  there;  and  the  foot-soldiers 
from  the  east,  the  Slavonians  and  Albanians, 
swear  that  they  will  all  desert  if  we  do  not 
sign  the  capitulation  this  night. 

GUIDO 

Three  times  in  these  ten  days  the  Coun- 
cil has  sent  elders  from  the  college  to 
treat  of  terms  —  and  we  have  seen  them 
no  more. 

TORELLO 

Prinzivalle  cannot  pardon  us  the  death  of 
his  lieutenant,  Antonio  Reno,  slain  in  our 
streets  by  the  furious  peasants.     Florence 
[3] 


MONN  A    VANN  A 


draws  her  profit  from  it,  to  reckon  us  out- 
laws and  barbarians. 

GUIDO 

I  sent  my  own  father  to  tell  and  to  excuse 
the  error  of  a  maddened  multitude  whom 
we  could  not  contain.  He  was  sure  a  sacred 
hostage — yet  he  is  not  returned. 

BORSO 

Now  for  a  week  past  the  town  lies  open 
on  every  side,  our  walls  are  ruined,  and  our 
cannon  silent.  Why  comes  not  Prinzivalle 
to  the  assault?  Is  it  that  his  courage  fails 
him,  or  hath  Florence  sent  dark  and  hidden 
orders? 

GUIDO 

The  orders  of  Florence  are  always  dark, 
but  her  designs  are  clear.  Too  long  has 
Pisa  been  the  faithful  ally  of  Venice;  it  is 
an  evil  example  for  the  small  towns  of 
Tuscany.  The  Republic  of  Pisa  must  be 
blotted  from  the  earth.  Little  by  little, 
cunningly  and  silently,  they  have  poisoned 
this  war,  provoking  cruelties  and  unaccus- 
[4] 


MONNA    VANNA 


tomed  perfidy,  that  they  may  the  better 
justify  the  vengeance  they  will  take.  Not 
without  reason  do  I  suspect  their  emissaries 
of  having  goaded  on  our  commons  to  murder 
Reno.  Nor  is  it  idly  that  they  have  sent 
against  us  the  most  savage  of  their  hirelings, 
the  barbarous  Prinzivalle — that  same  whose 
exploits  at  the  sack  of  Piacenza  are  so  fa- 
mous. There,  after  that  he  had  slaughtered, 
they  said  carelessly,  all  the  armed  men,  he 
put  to  sale  as  slaves  five  thousand  free-born 
women. 

BORSO 

They  have  erred  that  tell  the  tale.  It 
was  not  Prinzivalle,  but  the  commissaries  of 
Florence  that  ordained  both  the  slaughter 
and  the  sale.  I  have  never  seen  this  Prin- 
zivalle, but  one  of  my  brothers  knew  him. 
He  is  of  outlandish  birth;  his  father  was  a 
Basque  or  a  Breton,  it  would  seem,  and  had 
set  up  as  a  goldsmith  in  Venice.  He  is  of 
low  descent,  in  sooth,  but  not  the  savage 
that  men  paint  him.  They  call  him  violent, 
heady,  a  loose  liver,  a  dangerous  foe,  but 
[5] 


MONNA    VANNA 


a  man  of  honor.     I  would  yield  him  my 
sword  without  fear.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Yield  it  not  so  long  as  it  may  defend  you. 
We  shall  see  him  at  his  work,  and  know  then 
which  of  us  two  is  in  the  right.  Meantime 
we  must  essay  the  last  chance  of  men  who 
will  not  be  slaughtered  without  so  much  as 
lifting  an  arm.  First,  we  must  needs  tell 
the  whole  truth  to  the  soldiers,  the  towns- 
men, and  the  peasants  who  have  taken 
shelter  with  us.  They  must  know  that  no 
terms  are  offered  us — that  it  is  no  longer 
question  of  one  of  those  peaceful  wars  when 
two  great  armies  fight  from  dawn  till  dusk 
to  leave  three  wounded  men  upon  the  field, 
one  of  those  brotherly  sieges  where  the  con- 
queror becomes  in  a  day  the  guest  and  the 
dearest  friend  of  the  vanquished.  It  is  a 
struggle  without  quarter,  in  which  life  and 
death  alone  are  face  to  face — in  which  our 
wives,  our  children  .  .  .  [Enter  MARCO. 
GUIDO  catches  sight  of  him  and  goes  quickly 
to  greet  and  embrace  him.}  Father!  .  .  . 
[6] 


MONNA    VANNA 


By  what  happy  chance,  amid  all  our  ills,  by 
what  blessed  miracle,  have  you  come  safe 
back  to  us  when  I  had  ceased  to  hope  ?  You 
are  not  wounded  ?  You  walk  painfully.  .  .  . 
Have  they  tortured  you?  Did  you  escape? 
What  have  they  done  to  you? 

MARCO 

Nothing,  thank  Heaven — they  are  not  bar- 
barians. They  welcomed  me  as  men  wel- 
come a  guest  whom  they  revere.  Prin- 
zivalle  had  read  my  works;  he  spoke  to  me 
of  the  three  dialogues  of  Plato  that  I  found 
and  translated.  If  I  halt  in  my  walk,  it 
is  because  I  am  old,  and  I  have  come  a  long 
way.  Can  you  guess  whom  I  met  in  Prin- 
zivalle's  tent? 

GUIDO 

I  can  hazard  a  guess — the  merciless  com- 
missaries of  Florence. 

MARCO 

Yes,  in  truth — them,  too,  or  one  of  them, 
for  I  saw  but  one.  .  .  .  But  the  first  man 
who  was  named  to  me  there  was  Marsiglio 
[7] 


MONNA    VANNA 


Ficino,  the  venerable  master  who  revealed 
Plato  to  my  eyes — Marsiglio  Ficino,  the  very 
soul  of  Plato  born  again  on  earth!  I  would 
have  gladly  given  ten  years  of  my  life  to  see 
him  before  I  shall  go  the  way  of  all  flesh, 
We  were  even  as  two  brothers  who  meet 
after  a  long  absence.  .  .  .  We  spoke  of 
Hesiod,  of  Aristotle,  of  Homer.  ...  In  an 
olive-grove  near  the  camp  he  had  discover- 
ed, buried  in  the  sand  of  the  river-bank,  the 
torso  of  a  goddess  so  strangely  fair  that  if 
you  saw  it  you  would  forget  the  war.  We 
dug  farther — he  found  an  arm,  and  I  un- 
earthed two  hands  so  pure  and  fine  that  one 
would  think  them  formed  to  call  up  smiles 
by  their  caresses  or  to  spread  the  gentle  dew 
of  dawn.  One  of  them  was  curved  as  slender 
fingers  are  when  they  press  a  dainty  breast, 
the  other  still  held  the  handle  of  a  mirror  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Father,  forget  not  that  a  people  is  dying 
of  hunger;  there  are  other  things  for  them 
to  think  of  than  delicate  hands  and  a  bronze 
torso. 

[8] 


MONNA    VANNA 


MARCO 

Marble,  my  son — it  was  of  marble. 

GUIDO 

Be  it  so;  let  us  rather  speak  of  thirty 
thousand  lives  that  may  be  lost  by  one  im- 
prudence, one  moment  of  delay,  or  saved 
perchance  by  a  wise  word,  by  good  tidings. 
It  was  not  for  a  torso  or  a  pair  of  severed 
hands  that  you  went  forth.  What  did  they 
tell  you?  What  will  they  do  with  us — 
Florence  or  Prinzivalle?  Speak!  What  do 
they  wait  for?  You  hear  those  wretched 
souls  that  cry  beneath  our  windows?  They 
are  struggling  for  the  grass  that  grows  be- 
tween the  stones.  .  .  . 

MARCO 

True,  I  had  forgotten  that  you  are  at 
war — now,  when  spring  comes  again,  when 
the  sky  breathes  of  happiness  like  that  of 
a  king  that  wakes  from  his  slumbers,  when 
the  sea  swells  like  a  cup  of  light  that  a  shin- 
ing goddess  holds  to  her  bright  consort, 
when  the  earth  is  so  fair  and  hath  such  love 


MONNA    VANNA 


for  men!  But  you  have  your  joys — I  speak 
too  long  of  mine.  Ay,  you  are  right ;  I 
should  have  told  you  straight  the  news  I 
bring.  It  saves  thirty  thousand  lives,  to 
sadden  one ;  but  it  offers  this  one  the  noblest 
of  chances  to  cover  itself  with  a  glory  that 
seems  higher  to  me  than  the  glories  of  war. 
Love  for  one  sole  object  is  happy  and  laud- 
able; but  love  that  rises  to  greater  heights, 
that  seeks  a  wider  range,  is  better.  Nay, 
watchful  purity  and  faith  are  excellent  vir- 
tues; but  there  are  times  when  they  seem 
but  small  if  one  look  elsewhere.  So,  then 
.  .  .  But  fly  not  up  at  the  first  words,  to  cut 
off  your  retreat  by  oaths  that  will  bind  you 
when  reason  would  turn  back.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

[Dismissing  the  officers  by  a  sign.]     Leave 
us. 

MARCO 

Nay,  remain.     It  is  our  common  fate  that 

we  must  decide.     My  wish  would  be  that 

the  hall  were  filled  with  all  the  victims  we 

are  to  save,  that  they  listened  at  the  win- 

[10] 


MONNA    VANNA 


dows  to  grasp  and  hold  fast  the  salvation  I 
bring — for  I  do  bring  rescue,  if  reason  can  ac- 
cept it ;  though  ten  thousand  reasons  would 
scarce  outweigh  a  heavy  error,  one  so  heavy 
that  I  fear  its  weight  the  more  because  I  my- 
self .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Leave  these  riddles,  father.  What  can  it 
be  that  makes  such  demands  on  us?  Surely 
we  are  strong  enough  to  hear  all — and  we 
have  reached  the  hour  when  nothing  can 
longer  astonish  us. 

MARCO 

Know,  then,  that  I  saw  Prinzivalle  and 
spoke  with  him.  How  strangely  we  may  be 
deceived  by  the  image  of  a  man  painted  by 
those  who  fear  him!  I  went  even  as  Priam 
to  the  tent  of  Achilles.  ...  I  thought  to 
find  some  barbarian,  arrogant  and  heavy, 
always  covered  with  blood  or  plunged  in 
drunken  stupor;  at  best,  the  madman  they 
have  told  us  of,  whose  spirit  was  lit  up 
at  times,  upon  the  battle-field,  by  dazzling 
flashes  of  brilliance,  coming  no  man  knows 


MONNA    VANNA 


whence.  I  thought  to  meet  the  demon  of 
combat,  blind,  unreasoning,  vain  and  cruel, 
faithless  and  dissolute. 

GUIDO 

And  such  is  Prinzivalle,  only  not  faith- 
less. 

BORSO 

True,  he  is  honorable,  even  though  he 
serve  Florence ;  twice  hath  he  proved  it  to  us. 

MARCO 

Now  I  found  a  man  who  bowed  before  me 
as  a  loving  disciple  bows  before  the  master. 
He  is  lettered,  eager  for  knowledge,  and 
obedient  to  the  voice  of  wisdom.  He  will 
listen  long  and  patiently,  and  has  a  feeling 
for  all  beauties.  He  loves  not  war ;  his  smile 
speaks  of  understanding  and  gentle  human- 
ity. He  seeks  the  reason  of  passions  and 
events.  He  looks  into  his  own  heart;  he  is 
endowed  with  conscience  and  sincerity,  and 
it  is  against  his  will  that  he  serves  a  faithless 
state.  The  hazards  of  life,  his  destiny  per- 
chance, have  turned  him  to  the  career  of 

[12] 


MONNA    VANNA 


arms  and  chain  him  still  to  a  kind  of  glory 
that  he  despises  and  would  gladly  leave; 
but  not  before  he  has  satisfied  one  desire — 
a  dark  and  terrible  desire,  such  as  come  to 
certain  men  who  are  born,  it  would  seem, 
under  the  fatal  star  of  a  single  mighty  love 
that  may  never  be  realized.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Father,  you  must  not  forget  how  long  the 
time  is  to  men  that  perish  of  hunger.  Let 
us  leave  these  qualities  that  concern  us  not, 
and  come  to  the  word  of  salvation  that  you 
promise  us. 

MARCO 

It  is  true,  ...  I  may  have  unduly  de- 
layed it;  and  cruel  as  it  is  to  the  two  whom 
I  love  best  on  earth  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

I  take  my  part — but  whose  shall  the  other 
be? 

MARCO 

Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you.  When  I  came 
hither  it  seemed  strange  and  difficult;  but 


MONNA    VANNA 


on  the  other  hand,  the  chance  of  salvation 
was  so  prodigious  and  unlocked  for  .  .  . 

GUIDO 
Speak! 

MARCO 

Florence  is  resolved  to  blot  us  out;  the 
Council  of  War  decrees  it  necessary,  and 
the  Signoria  approves  their  judgment.  There 
is  no  appeal.  But  Florence,  always  hypo- 
critical and  prudent,  is  loath  to  bear  the 
blame  of  too  bloody  a  triumph  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  to  which  she  is  the  apostle  of 
civilization.  She  will  maintain  that  Pisa 
refuses  the  terms  of  clemency  offered  by 
her.  The  town  will  be  taken  by  assault, 
the  Spanish  and  German  bands  let  loose 
upon  us.  There  will  be  no  need  to  give 
them  special  orders  when  there  is  a  prospect 
of  pillage  and  rape  and  burning  and  mas- 
sacre. It  is  enough  to  say  that  they  pass 
beyond  the  restraining  hand  of  their  com- 
manders— who  will  easily  find  themselves 
powerless  on  that  day.  Such  is  the  fate 
they  reserve  for  us;  and  the  city  of  the 


MONNA    VANNA 


lilies,  if  the  overthrow  should  prove  more 
cruel  even  than  she  dares  to  hope,  will  be 
the  first  to  deplore  it,  and  to  attribute  it 
to  the  unforeseen  license  of  the  soldiery, 
which  she  will  dismiss  with  signs  of  loath- 
ing after  our  ruin  has  made  their  help  need- 
less. .  .  . 

GUIDO 

I  see  Florence  in  all  that. 

MARCO 

Such  are  the  secret  instructions  trans- 
mitted to  Prinzivalle  by  word  of  mouth 
from  the  commissaries  of  the  Republic.  This 
week  past  they  have  been  pressing  him  to 
deliver  the  assault.  He  has  delayed  till  now 
on  divers  pretexts.  For  his  part,  he  has 
intercepted  letters  by  which  the  commis- 
saries, who  watch  his  every  movement,  ac- 
cuse him  to  the  Council  of  treason.  Pisa 
once  destroyed  and  the  war  over,  judgment, 
torture,  and  death  await  him  in  Florence, 
as  they  have  awaited  more  than  one  captain 
who  grew  dangerous.  Thus  he  knows  his 
fate. 


MONNA    VANNA 


GUIDO 

Good!     What  does  he  propose? 

MARCO 

He  counts — as  surely  as  a  man  may  count 
on  these  changeable  savages — on  a  certain 
part  of  the  archers  whom  he  enrolled  him- 
self. In  any  case,  he  is  sure  of  a  guard  of  a 
hundred  men  who  will  form  a  base  for  his 
plans,  utterly  devoted  to  him.  He  proposes, 
then,  to  bring  into  Pisa  all  that  will  follow 
him,  to  defend  you  against  the  army  he 
abandons. 

GUIDO 

It  is  not  men  we  lack — least  of  all  such 
dangerous  auxiliaries.  Let  them  give  us 
powder  and  ball  and  victuals.  .  .  . 

MARCO 

Good!  He  foresaw  that  you  would  reject 
an  offer  that  might  well  seem  so  doubtful. 
He  will  promise,  then,  to  throw  into  the 
town  a  convoy  of  three  hundred  wagons 
laden  with  victuals  and  munitions  that  has 
but  newly  arrived  in  his  camp. 
[16] 


MONNA    VANNA 


GUIDO 

How  will  he  do  it? 

MARCO 

I  do  not  know — I  understand  nothing  of 
the  ways  of  war  and  statecraft.  But  he 
does  as  he  will;  despite  the  Florentine  com- 
missaries, he  is  sole  master  in  his  camp,  so 
long  as  the  Council  has  not  recalled  him. 
And  it  would  not  dare  to  recall  him  on  the 
eve  of  a  victory,  from  the  midst  of  an  army 
that  has  the  prey  all  but  in  its  grasp  and 
believes  in  him.  They  must  wait  their 
time.  .  .  .  , 

GUIDO 

So,  then,  I  understand  that  he  will  save 
us  in  order  to  save  himself  and  to  antici- 
pate his  vengeance.  But  he  might  do  it  in 
a  more  striking  or  a  more  subtle  manner. 
What  interest  has  he  in  loading  his  enemies 
with  favors?  Where  will  he  go — what  will 
become  of  him?  What  does  he  ask  in  ex- 
change ? 

MARCO 

Now  comes  the  moment,  son,  when  words 


MONNA    VANNA 


become  cruel  and  mighty  —  when  two  or 
three  of  them  suddenly  put  on  the  strength 
of  fate  and  choose  their  victims!  I  tremble 
when  I  think  that  the  sound  of  these  words, 
the  manner  in  which  they  are  pronounced, 
may  cause  many  a  death  or  save  many  a 
life.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

I  cannot  fathom  this.  .  .  .  The  most  cruel 
words  can  add  nothing  to  real  misfortunes. 

MARCO 

I  have  told  you  that  Prinzivalle  seems 
wise,  that  he  is  humane  and  reasonable. 
But  where  is  the  wise  man  that  hath  not 
his  private  madness,  the  good  man  to  whom 
no  monstrous  idea  has  ever  come?  On  one 
side  is  reason  and  pity  and  justice;  on  the 
other — ah!  there  is  desire  and  passion  and 
what  you  will  —  the  insanity  into  which 
we  all  fall  at  times.  I  have  fallen  into  it 
myself,  and  shall,  belike,  again — so  have  you. 
Man  is  made  in  that  fashion.  A  grief  which 
should  not  be  within  the  experience  of  man 
is  on  the  point  of  touching  you;  and  I,  who 
[18] 


MONNA    VANNA 


see  so  clearly  that  it  will  be  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  the  evil  that  it  answers  to,  have 
made  for  my  part  a  promise  madder  yet  than 
this  grief,  mad  as  that  will  be.  Yet  this 
promise,  in  all  its  folly,  shall  be  kept  by  the 
wise  man  that  I  pretend  to  be,  I  that  come 
to  speak  to  you  in  the  name  of  reason.  I 
have  promised,  if  you  reject  his  offer,  to  re- 
turn to  the  enemy's  camp.  What  shall  be- 
fall me  there  ?  Torture  and  death  will  likely 
be  the  reward  of  so  absurd  a  loyalty;  yet  I 
shall  go.  It  is  well  enough  to  tell  myself 
that  it  is  but  a  remnant  of  childish  folly  that 
I  am  dressing  up  in  purple;  none  the  less  I 
shall  commit  the  folly  that  I  disdain,  for  I 
have  no  longer  the  strength  to  follow  my 
reason.  But  still  I  have  not  told  you.  .  .  . 
I  am  losing  myself  in  a  labyrinth  of  words,  I 
am  piling  up  obstacles  to  keep  from  me  the 
decisive  moment.  .  .  .  Yet  it  may  be  that 
I  am  wrong  to  doubt  of  you.  .  .  .  Hearken : 
this  great  convoy,  the  victuals  that  I  have 
seen,  wagons  running  over  with  corn,  others 
full  of  wine  and  fruit;  flocks  of  sheep  and 
herds  of  cattle,  enough  to  feed  a  city  for 
[19] 


MONNA    VANNA 


months;  all  these  tuns  of  powder  and  bars 
of  lead,  with  which  you  may  vanquish 
Florence  and  make  Pisa  lift  her  head — all 
this  will  enter  the  city  to-night,  ...  if  you 
send  in  exchange,  to  give  her  up  to  Prin- 
zivalle  until  to-morrow's  dawn,  .  .  .  for  he 
will  send  her  back  when  the  first  faint  gray 
shows  in  the  sky,  .  .  .  only,  he  exacts  that, 
in  sign  of  victory  and  submission,  she  shall 
come  alone,  and  her  cloak  for  all  her  cover- 
ing. .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Who?     Who  shall  thus  come? 

MARCO 

Giovanna. 

GUIDO 

My  wife  ?     Vanna  ? 

MARCO 

Ay,  your  Vanna.     I  have  said  it! 

GUIDO 

But  why  my  Vanna,  if  such  are  his  de- 
sires?    There  are  a  thousand  women — 

[20] 


MONNA    VANNA 


MARCO 

Because  she  is  the  fairest,  and  ...  he 

loves  her. 

GUIDO 

He  loves  her?     Where  can  he  have  seen 
her? 

MARCO 

He  has  seen  her  and  knows  her — he  would 
not  say  when  or  how. 

GUIDO 

But  she — has  she  seen  him?     Where  can 
he  have  crossed  her  path? 

MARCO 

She  has  never  seen  him — or  so  her  mem- 
ory tells. 

GUIDO 

How  know  you  that? 

MARCO 
She  herself  told  me. 

GUIDO 
When? 

[21] 


MONNA    VANNA 


MARCO 

Before  I  came  to  find  you. 

.  GUIDO 
And  you  told  her?  .  .  . 

MARCO 

All. 

GUIDO 

All?  What,  all  the  infamous  barter? 
You  could  dare?  .  .  . 

MARCO 

Ay. 

GUIDO 

And  what  said  she? 

MARCO 

She  answered  nothing,  but  grew  pale  and 
left  me  without  a  word. 

GUIDO 

Ay,  so  it  pleases  me  best!  She  might 
have  leaped  upon  you,  have  spat  in  your 
face,  or  fallen  senseless  at  your  feet.  .  .  . 

[22] 


MONNA    VANNA 


But  I  like  it  better  that  she  but  turned  pale 
and  left  you.  So  would  an  angel  have  done. 
That  is  my  Vanna.  There  was  no  need  of 
words.  We,  on  our  side,  will  say  nothing. 
We  will  take  our  post  once  more  upon  the 
ramparts — if  it  be  but  to  die,  we  die  at  least 
without  staining  our  defeat  .  .  . 

MARCO 

My  son,  I  understand  you — and  the  trial  is 
wellnigh  as  harsh  for  me  as  for  you.  But  the 
blow  has  now  been  struck — let  us  give  reason 
time  to  put  our  duty  and  our  pain  in  their 
right  places. 

GUIDO 

There  can  be  but  one  duty  in  face  of  this 
abominable  offer  —  no  reflection  can  do 
aught  but  add  to  the  horror  it  inspires. 

MARCO 

Yet  ask  yourself  if  you  have  the  right  to 
give  a  whole  city  up  to  death,  and  but  to 
put  off  by  some  sad  hours  an  inevitable  ill. 
When  the  city  is  taken,  Vanna  will  be  in  the 
victor's  power.  .  .  . 


MONNA    VANNA 


GUIDO 

Nay,  .  .  .  leave  that  to  me. 

MARCO 

So  be  it,  ...  but  these  thousands  of  lives, 
say  to  yourself  that  they  are  much,  .  .  .  too 
much,  perchance — and  that  it  is  not  just. 
...  If  your  own  welfare  were  all  that  hung 
upon  this  choice,  you  might  well  choose 
death  and  I  would  approve  you,  even  though 
I,  nearing  the  end  of  a  life  that  has  seen 
many  men  and  thus  many  human  griefs, 
doubt  the  wisdom  of  preferring  death  with 
its  cold  horrors,  its  eternal  silence,  to  any 
suffering  in  body  or  even  in  soul  that  may 
delay  it.  ...  But  here  it  is  a  question  of 
thousands  of  other  lives — brothers  in  arms, 
women,  little  children.  .  .  .  Yield  to  this 
madman's  demand,  and  what  seems  mon- 
strous to  you  will  be  heroic  to  those  who 
live  after  you  and  will  look  upon  your  act 
with  a  calmer  and  so  a  juster  eye.  Believe 
me,  nothing  is  worth  a  life  that  one  saves; 
all  the  virtues,  all  the  ideals  of  man,  all 
that  he  calls  honor,  fidelity,  and  the  like, 
[24] 


MONNA    VANNA 


seem  but  a  child's  game  in  comparison.  You 
would  traverse  a  fearful  trial  as  a  hero — 
yet  they  err  who  believe  that  heroism  has 
no  other  height  but  in  death.  The  most 
heroic  act  is  that  which  costs  the  most — 
and  death  is  often  less  painful  than  life. 

GUIDO 
Can  it  be  that  you  are  my  father? 

MARCO 

And  proud  of  the  name.  If  I  strive  against 
you  to-day,  I  strive  equally  against  myself, 
and  should  love  you  less  did  you  yield  too 
soon. 

GUIDO 

Ay,  you  are  my  father — you  have  proved 
it,  for  you,  too,  would  choose  death.  Since 
I  reject  this  abominable  compact,  you  will 
return  to  the  enemy's  camp,  there  to  suffer 
the  fate  that  Florence  decrees.  .  .  . 

MARCO 

My  son,  there  is  no  question  here  of  a 
useless  graybeard,  who  has  but  few  days  to 
[25] 


MONNA    VANNA 


live  and  matters  little  to  any  one.  There- 
fore it  is  that  I  tell  myself  it  is  waste  of 
time  to  combat  an  ancient  folly  in  myself 
and  struggle  to  raise  what  I  must  do  to  the 
height  of  wisdom.  I  do  not  know  why  I 
shall  go  thither.  .  .  .  The  soul  in  my  old 
body  is  still  too  young — I  am  far  enough 
yet  from  the  age  of  reason.  But,  though 
I  deplore  it,  the  force  of  the  past  prevents 
me  from  violating  a  mad  promise.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 
I  shall  follow  your  example. 

MARCO 
What  do  you  mean? 

GUIDO 

Like  you,  I  shall  be  faithful  to  that  power 
of  the  past  which  seems  absurd  to  you, 
though,  happily,  it  still  rules  your  actions. . . . 

MARCO 

It  rules  me  only  when  others  come  into 
question.     If  your  mind  needs,  for  its  en- 
[26] 


MONNA    VANNA 


lightenment,  the  sacrifice  of  an  old  man's 
word,  I  will  give  up  the  keeping  of  my 
promise,  and,  do  what  you  will,  I  will  not 
go  back  to  them.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Enough,  father — or  I  shall  speak  words 
to  you  that  a  son  ought  not  to  speak  even 
to  an  erring  father. 

MARCO 

Say  all  the  words  that  indignation  calls 
up  in  your  heart — I  shall  take  them  only 
as  the  evidences  of  a  just  grief.  My  love 
for  you  does  not  depend  on  the  words  you 
speak.  But,  though  you  curse  me,  let  rea- 
son and  benign  pity  come  into  your  heart 
to  take  the  place  of  the  harsh  thoughts  that 
come  from  it.  ... 

GUIDO 

That  will  suffice — I  cannot  listen  longer. 

Reflect  on  what  thing  it  is  you  would  have 

me  do.     It  is  you  that  are  false  to  reason, 

to  any  high  and  noble  reason;  the  fear  of 

[27] 


MONNA    VANNA 


death  troubles  your  accustomed  wisdom. 
As  for  me,  I  look  upon  this  death  with  less 
disquietude — I  recall  the  lessons  of  courage 
you  gave  me  before  age  and  the  vain  study 
of  many  books  enfeebled  yours.  No  man 
has  witnessed  your  weakness  save  my  two 
officers,  and  they  will  keep  with  m,e  the 
secret  that  we  shall  not,  alas!  have  long  to 
carry.  Let  it  be  buried  in  our  breasts ;  and 
now  to  speak  of  the  final  combat.  .  .  . 

MARCO 

Nay,  my  son,  it  cannot  be  buried;  my 
years  and  my  vain  studies  have  taught  me 
that  no  man's  life  may  thus  be  hidden  from 
sight.  If  you  fancy  that  I  have  no  longer 
the  only  kind  of  courage  that  you  honor, 
there  is  another,  less  brilliant,  it  may  be,  and 
less  vaunted  by  men's  tongues,  since  it  does 
less  harm,  and  they  venerate  that  by  which 
they  suffer.  .  .  .  That  will  strengthen  me  to 
accomplish  what  remains  of  my  duty. 

GUIDO 

What  is  it  that  remains? 
[28] 


MONNA    VANNA 


MARCO 

I  must  finish  what  I  have  begun  in  vain. 
You  were  one  of  the  judges  in  this  cause,  but 
not  the  only  one;  all  those  whose  life  and 
death  hangs  in  the  balance  have  the  right  to 
know  their  fate  and  its  conditions.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

I  do  not  clearly  see — at  least,  I  hope  I  do 
not.  You  would  say?  .  .  . 

MARCO 

.  .  .  That  when  I  leave  this  room,  it  will  be 
to  tell  the  people  of  Prinzivalle's  offer,  which 

you  reject. 

GUIDO 

Good — now,  at  least,  I  understand.  I  am 
sorry  that  useless  words  have  brought  us 
thus  far,  and  that  your  strange  madness 
forces  me  to  seem  wanting  in  the  respect  due 
to  your  age.  But  a  son's  duty  is  to  protect 
a  mistaken  father  even  against  himself. 
Moreover,  while  Pisa  stands  I  am  master 
here  and  guardian  of  its  honor.  Borso  and 
Torello,  I  give  my  father  into  your  charge. 
[29] 


MONNA    VANNA 


You  will  guard  him  until  his  conscience  shall 
have  come  to  itself.  Nothing  has  happened 
— no  one  shall  know.  Father,  I  pardon  you 
— and  you  will  pardon  me  when  the  last  hour 
shall  reawaken  in  you  the  memory  of  the 
days  when  you  taught  me  to  be  a  man  with- 
out fear  or  conscious  weakness. 

MARCO 

My  son,  I  pardon  you  before  that  last  hour 
comes.  I  should  have  done  like  you.  You 
may  imprison  me,  but  my  secret  is  free — it 
is  too  late  already  to  stifle  my  voice. 

GUIDO 
What  mean  you? 

MARCO 

That  in  this  very  hour  the  Council  is  de- 
liberating on  the  proposal  of  Prinzivalle. 

GUIDO 
The  Council?  .  .  .  Who  has  told  them? 

MARCO 

I — before  I  told  you. 
[30] 


MONNA    VANNA 


GUIDO 

No!  It  is  not  possible  that  the  fear  of 
death  and  the  ravages  of  old  age  can  so  far 
have  unbalanced  you  that  you  would  thus 
give  over  my  only  happiness,  all  the  love,  all 
the  joy,  and  all  the  purity  of  both  our  lives, 
to  strange  hands,  who  will  coldly  weigh  and 
measure  them,  as  they  weigh  salt  and  meas- 
ure oil  in  their  shops !  I  cannot  believe  it — 
I  will  not  believe  it  until  I  have  seen  it. 
But  if  I  shall  have  seen  it,  ah!  then  I  shall 
look  upon  you,  my  poor  old  father  that  I 
used  to  love,  that  I  thought  I  knew,  that  I 
tried  to  resemble  a  little,  with  as  much  hor- 
ror as  I  should  have  for  the  obscene  and  cruel 
monster  who  has  plunged  us  into  all  this 
misery! 

MARCO 

You  speak  truth,  son,  when  you  say  you 
have  not  known  me  well  enough.  ...  I  accuse 
myself  of  the  fault.  When  my  gray  hairs 
came  to  me,  I  did  not  share  with  you  what 
each  day  taught  me  of  life  and  love  and  hu- 
man happiness  and  misery.  Often  a  man 
may  live  thus,  close  to  those  he  loves,  and 


MONNA    VANNA 


not  tell  them  the  only  things  that  count. 
He  goes  on,  cradled  in  the  memory  of  the 
past,  believing  that  all  other  things  are 
transformed  with  him ;  and  when  misfortune 
rouses  him,  he  sees  with  horror  how  far  they 
have  drifted  the  one  from  the  other.  If  I 
had  told  you  sooner  the  changes  time  was 
working  in  my  heart,  the  vanities  that  were, 
one  by  one,  dropping  from  me,  the  realities 
that  were  expanding  in  their  place,  I  should 
not  now  stand  before  you  as  an  unhappy 
stranger  whom  you  are  on  the  verge  of 
hating.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

I  am  happy  in  knowing  you  so  late.  For 
the  rest,  naught  avails.  I  know  what  the 
Council  will  choose.  It  is  too  easy,  for- 
sooth, to  save  themselves  thus  at  the  cost  of 
a  single  man — it  is  a  temptation  which  more 
courageous  souls  than  these  merchants,  who 
would  fain  go  back  to  their  counters,  could 
not  resist.  But  I  do  not  owe  them  such  a 
sacrifice — to  none  do  I  owe  it !  I  have  given 
them  my  blood,  my  sleepless  nights,  all  the 
toils  and  sufferings  of  this  long  siege — it  is 
[32] 


MONNA    VANNA 


enough.  The  rest  is  mine.  I  will  not  yield 
— I  will  remember  that  I  still  command  here. 
There  are  at  least  my  three  hundred  Stradi- 
otes  that  will  hear  no  voice  but  mine  and 
will  take  no  part  in  the  plots  of  cowards! 

MARCO 

My  son,  you  are  wrong.  The  Council  of 
Pisa,  these  merchants  whom  you  despise 
without  knowing  their  decision,  have  given, 
in  the  midst  of  their  distress,  an  admirable  ex- 
ample of  noble  firmness.  They  have  refused 
to  receive  their  safety  at  the  cost  of  a  wom- 
an's purity  and  love.  At  the  moment  when 
I  left  them  to  come  to  you,  they  were  sum- 
moning Monna  Vanna  to  tell  her  that  they 
left  the  fate  of  the  city  in  her  hands. 

GUIDO 

What?  They  have  dared?  When  I  was 
absent,  they  have  been  bold  enough  to  re- 
peat before  her  the  evil  words  of  that  vil- 
lanous  satyr!  My  Vanna!  When  I  think 
of  her  delicate  visage,  to  which  a  look  would 
bring  the  blush,  where  every  pure  thought 
[33] 


came  and  went  unceasingly,  as  though  to 
refresh  the  splendor  of  her  beauty.  .  .  .  My 
Vanna  before  them — old  men  with  shining 
eyes;  pale,  paltry  merchants  with  the  smile 
of  hypocrites,  that  trembled  before  her  as 
before  a  holy  thing.  .  .  .  They  will  have  said 
to  her,  "Go  to  him,  even  after  the  manner 
of  his  demand."  They  would  have  her  go 
to  yield  up  to  him  that  body  which  no  man 
ever  dared  to  think  on  with  so  much  as  a 
passing  breath  of  desire,  so  virginal  did  it 
appear;  from  which  I,  her  husband,  ventured 
not  to  draw  the  veils  but  with  a  charge  to 
my  hands,  my  eyes,  to  keep  perfect  rever- 
ence, lest  I  should  sully  it  by  one  ill-gov- 
erned thought.  .  .  .  And  while  I  speak  they 
are  there  and  say  to  her  — !  They  are 
noble  and  resolute,  you  tell  me — they  will 
not  force  her  to  go  without  her  will.  What 
will  they  do  when  I  stand  before  them  ?  They 
only  ask  for  her  consent — but  mine,  who  has 
asked  it  ? 

MARCO 

Have  not  I,  my  son?     If  I  do  not  gain  it, 
they  will  come  in  their  turn.  .  .  . 
[34] 


MONNA    VANNA 


GUIDO 

There  is  no  need  for  them  to  come — 
Vanna  will  have  answered  for  us  both. 

MARCO 

I  hope  she  may — if  you  will  accept  her 
answer. 

GUIDO 

Her  answer?  Can  you  doubt  of  it?  Yet 
you  know  her — you  have  seen  her  day  by 
day,  since  that  first  hour  when,  covered  with 
the  flowers  and  the  smiles  of  her  one  love, 
she  crossed  the  threshold  of  this  very  hall  to 
which  you  come  to  sell  her,  where  you  doubt 
of  the  answer,  the  only  answer  a  woman  can 
make  to  a  father  who  so  forgets  himself  as  to 
ask  that  she  .  .  . 

MARCO 

Every  man,  my  son,  sees  in  another  that 
which  he  knows  in  himself — and  sees  it  in  a 
different  fashion,  reaching  to  the  height  of 
his  own  conscience. 

GUIDO 

Ay,  perchance  that  is  why  I  knew  you  so 
[351 


MONNA    VANNA 


ill.  .  .  .  But  if  my  eyes  must  be  opened  twice, 
on  two  errors  so  cruel  —  God!  I  would  far 
rather  close  them  forever. 

MARCO 

They  would  close,  my  son,  but  to  open  in 
greater  light.  If  I  speak  thus,  it  is  that  I 
have  seen  in  her  a  strength  that  you  know 
not,  ...  so  that  I  do  not  doubt  of  her  an- 
swer. .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Nor  will  I  doubt  of  it.  I  accept  it  here 
and  now,  before  I  know  it,  blindly,  firmly, 
irrevocably.  If  it  is  not  the  same  as  mine, 
it  is  that  we  have  been  deceived  the  one  in 
the  other,  from  the  first  hour  until  this  day 
— that  all  our  love  has  been  one  huge  lie  that 
now  falls  asunder — that  all  I  adored  in  her 
had  no  existence  save  in  this  poor,  credulous 
brain,  so  near  to  madness,  in  this  miserable 
heart  that  knew  but  one  happiness,  and  that 
a  phantom! 

[The  murmur  of  a  throng  is  heard  off. 
They  repeat   the   name  of   MONNA 
VANNA.     The  door  up  stage  opens, 
[36] 


MONNA    VANNA 


and  VANNA,  alone  and  very  pale, 
advances  into  the  room,  while  the 
crowd  of  men  and  women  press  tim- 
idly about  the  threshold,  as  though 
not  daring  to  enter,  and  wishing  to 
conceal  their  presence.  GUIDO,  see- 
ing her,  goes  swiftly  to  her,  takes  her 
hands  in  his,  caresses  her  face,  and 
kisses  it  with  feverish  ardor. 

My  Vanna!  What  have  they  done  to 
you?  Nay,  nay,  tell  me  not  the  things  they 
have  said !  Let  me  look  upon  your  face  and 
deep  down  within  your  eyes.  .  .  .  Ah!  all  is 
still  as  pure  and  clear  as  the  pools  in  which 
angels  bathe.  They  could  not  sully  what  I 
loved;  all  their  words  have  fallen  only  as 
stones  thrown  into  the  air,  that  fall  back 
without  troubling  for  an  instant  the  serene 
clearness  of  the  azure  heaven.  When  they 
looked  upon  these  eyes,  they  dared  to  ask 
no  question,  or  they  found  their  answer 
written  there — the  clearness  of  your  glance 
set  a  great  lake  of  light  and  love  between 
their  thoughts  and  yours.  But  now  look; 
[371 


MONNA    VANNA 


come  hither.  .  .  .  There  stands  a  man  I  call 
my  father.  .  .  .  See,  he  bows  his  head — the 
white  locks  fall  about  it  to  hide  his  face! 
You  must  pardon  him — he  is  old  and  wan- 
dering. .  .  .  Have  pity  on  him — recall  him  by 
your  words;  your  eyes  are  not  enough,  so  far 
is  he  from  us.  He  knows  us  no  longer — our 
love  has  passed  above  his  blind  old  age  as  an 
April  shower  above  a  barren  rock.  He  has 
never  caught  one  of  its  rays,  never  surprised 
the  meaning  of  a  single  one  of  our  kisses. 
He  must  have  words  to  understand  your 
answer — tell  him  your  answer! 

VANNA 

[Approaches  MARCO.]  Father,  I  will  go  to- 
night. 

MARCO 

[Kisses  her  forehead.]    I  knew,  daughter . . . 

GUIDO 

Ha!     What  is  that?     Are  your  words  for 
him  or  for  me  ? 

VANNA 

For  you,  too,  Guido.     I  shall  obey.  .  .  . 
[38] 


MONNA    VANNA 


GUIDO 

But  whom?  All  lies  in  that.  I  know  not 
yet.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

I  go  to-night  to  Prinzivalle's  camp.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

To  give  yourself  to  him  according  to  his 
demand  ? 

VANNA 

Even  so. 

GUIDO 

To  die  with  him?  To  kill  him  first?  I 
had  not  thought.  .  .  .  Say  that,  and  I  shall 
understand ! 

VANNA 

I  shall  not  kill  him — the  citv  would  be 
sacked.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

What?  And  is  this  you?  Then  you  love 
him — you  have  loved  him?  Say  how  long! 

VANNA 

I  do  not  know  him — I  have  never  seen 
him. 

[39] 


MONNA    VANNA 


GUIDO 

But  you  know  what  manner  of  man  he 
is?  They  have  spoken  of  him  .  .  .  have  told 
you  .  .  . 

VANNA 

One  said  he  was  an  old  man — I  know  no 

more.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

He  is  not  old.  He  is  young  and  handsome 
— younger  than  I.  ...  Why  has  he  asked  this 
one  thing?  I  would  have  gone  to  him  on 
my  knees,  my  hands  bound,  to  save  the  city. 
I  would  have  gone  from  here  alone,  alone 
and  penniless  with  her,  to  be  a  wanderer  to 
the  end,  and  beg  my  bread  on  desolate  high- 
ways. .  .  .  But  this  foul  dream  of  a  barba- 
rian !  .  .  .  Never,  in  any  age  or  in  any  story, 
has  a  conqueror  dared —  .  .  .  [Approaches 
VANNA  and  embraces  her.]  Vanna!  My 
Vanna!  I  cannot  believe  it  yet — it  is  not 
your  voice  that  speaks.  ...  I  have  heard 
nothing,  all  is  as  it  was.  It  was  my  father's 
voice  thrown  back  by  the  walls.  Tell  me 
that  I  have  heard  wrong — that  all  our.love, 
all  your  purity  said  no,  cried  aloud  no,  since 
[40] 


MONNA    VANNA 


the  shame  of  such  a  choice  was  forced  upon 
you!  I  heard  nothing,  tell  me,  but  a  be- 
lated echo ;  ...  it  is  the  unbroken  silence  that 
you  are  now  to  part.  All  listen  eagerly — 
none  knows  anything — the  first  word  is  yet 
to  come  from  you.  Speak  it  swiftly,  Vanna, 
that  they  may  know  you  as  you  are — speak 
it  swiftly  to  scatter  an  evil  dream  and  to 
proclaim  the  greatness  of  our  love!  Speak 
the  word  for  which  I  wait,  the  word  I  need 
to  sustain  all  that  is  tottering  and  ready  to 
fall  to  ruin  in  me !  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Well  I  know,  Guido,  that  your  part  of  the 
burden  is  the  heaviest.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

[Instinctively  repelling  her.]  I  bear  it  alone ! 
He  who  loves  carries  all  the  burden.  And 
you  never  loved  me.  .  .  .  Such  things  cost 
little  to  those  who  have  no  heart.  ...  It  is 
something  new — perchance  even  a  joy.  .  .  . 
Ah!  but  I  shall  know  how  to  spoil  that  joy! 
Let  men  say  and  do  what  they  please,  I  am 


MONNA    VANNA 


still  master  here !  And  what  would  you  say 
if  I  rose  up  against  this  horror,  if  I  shut  you 
in  my  good  prison — oh,  a  chaste  prison,  dun- 
geons cool  and  fresh,  that  lie  beneath  this 
hall: — with  my  Stradiotes  to  watch  every 
door,  until  your  warmth  died  down  and 
your  heroism  were  a  shade  less  ardent?  [To 
the  officers.]  Take  her!  I  have  spoken — 
the  order  is  given.  Obey  me ! 

VANNA 

Guido,  you  know  well  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

They  obey  not?  No  one  moves?  Borso, 
Torello,  are  your  arms  turned  to  stone  ?  Can 
you  hear  my  voice  no  longer?  And  you, 
yonder,  that  listen  at  the  door,  does  it  reach 
your  ears?  I  will  cry  so  loud  that  the  very 
rocks  shall  fly  apart!  Enter,  seize  her,  all 
the  world  has  leave!  ...  I  see — they  are 
afraid — they  desire  to  live.  .  .  .  They  shall 
live, then,  while  I  die.  .  .  .  God!  it  is  too  easy! 
One  man  alone  against  the  throng — one  that 
pays  the  debt  of  all.  .  .  .  Yet  why  should  I 
[42] 


MONNA    VANNA 


be  that  one  ?  You  all  have  wives.  .  .  .  [He 
half  draws  his  sword  and  approaches  VANNA.] 
And  what  if  I  preferred  your  death  to  the 
shame  of  both  of  us  ?  You  had  no  thought 
of  that.  .  .  .  Ay,  but  look!  .  .  .  One  stroke, 
and  it  is  done!  .  .  . 

VANNA 

You  will  do  it,  Guido,  if  love  commands 
you.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Love!  You  to  speak  of  love,  that  you 
have  never  known!  Nay,  it  is  true — you 
have  never  loved.  I  see  you  now  as  you  are 
— drier  than  a  sandy  desert  that  has  swal- 
lowed up  my  all !  Not  a  tear.  ...  I  was  noth- 
ing to  you  but  a  shelter  you  had  need  of.  ... 
If  for  a  moment  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Look,  Guido,  I  cannot  speak.  .  .  .  Look  in 
my  face.  .  .  .  My  strength  fails  me.  ...  I  am 
dying.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

[Takes  her  passionately  in  his  arms.]  Come 
[43] 


MONNA    VANNA 


to  my  arms,  Vanna!     It  is  there  that  you 
will  live! 

VANNA 

[Repulses  him,  her  body  becoming  rigid.] 
No,  no,  no,  no,  Guido!  I  know.  ...  I  cannot 
speak.  .  .  .  All  my  strength  fails  me  if  I  say 
one  word.  ...  I  cannot.  ...  I  would  only — 
I  have  reflected  well.  ...  I  know.  ...  I  love 
you,  I  owe  all  to  you.  ...  I  may  be  vile  and 
abandoned  —  and  yet  I  must  go  —  I  must 
go 

GUIDO 

[Thrusts  her  from  him.]  It  is  well.  .  .  .  Go, 
go,  leave  me — go  to  him.  I  yield  all.  Go 
to  him — I  cast  you  off.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

[Seizes  his  hands]  Guido  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

[Repulsing  her]  Ah,  do  not  cling  to  me 
with  your  soft,  warm  hands!  My  father 
was  right;  he  knew  you  better  than  I.  See, 
father — there  is  your  work.  Finish  it  to  the 
very  end.  Lead  her  to  his  tent.  I  will  stay 
[44] 


MONNA    VANNA 


here  and  see  you  go.  But  think  not  that  I 
shall  take  my  share  of  the  food  she  is  to  buy. 
One  thing  is  left  to  me  —  soon  you  shall 
know.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

[Clings  to  him.]  Look  at  me,  Guido!  Do 
not  hide  your  eyes.  .  .  .  That  is  the  only 
threat.  .  .  .  Look  at  me.  ...  I  must  see  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

[Looks  at  her  and  repulses  her  more  coldly] 
See,  then.  .  .  .  Go — I  know  you  no  more. 
The  time  draws  near — he  is  waiting — night 
falls.  Fear  nothing.  .  .  .  Are  my  eyes  the 
eyes  of  a  man  who  will  do  acts  of  madness  ? 
One  does  not  die  thus  when  love  has  melted 
away  into  nothingness — it  is  while  love  reigns 
that  reason  totters.  .  .  .  Mine  is  firm  now. 
...  I  have  seen  love  to  its  very  depths — love 
and  purity.  .  .  .  There  is  no  more  to  say. 
Nay,  unlace  your  fingers — they  cannot  hold 
love  that  departs.  It  is  all  over — not  a  trace 
remains.  All  the  past  has  sunk  into  the  abyss 
— and  all  that  was  to  come.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
time  when  I  believed.  .  .  .  but  all  is  over! 
[45] 


MONNA    VANNA 


[Frees  himself  from  both  of  VANNA'S  hands.] 
There  is  nothing  now.  .  .  .  less  than  nothing. 
.  .  .  Farewell,  Vanna  —  go  —  farewell.  .  .  . 
You  will  go  to  him?  .  .  . 

VANNA 

I  shall  go.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

You  will  not  return?  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Yes,  ...  if  ... 

GUIDO 

We  shall  see.  ...  Ah!  good;  ...  we  shall 
see.  .  .  .  Who  would  have  thought  that  my 
father  knew  her  better  than  I? 

[He  staggers  and  supports  himself 
against  one  of  the  marble  pillars. 
VANNA  exits  slowly,  alone,  without 
looking  at  him. 


CURTAIN 


MONNA    VANNA 


ACT    II 


SCENE. — The  tent  of  PRINZIVALLE.  Sumpt- 
uous disorder.  Hangings  of  silk  em- 
broidered in  gold.  Arms,  costly  skins, 
large  coffers  half  open,  full  of  jewels  and 
splendid  stuffs.  Entrance  to  tent  up 
stage,  overhung  with  tapestry.  Discov- 
ered: PRINZIVALLE  standing  near  a  table, 
on  which  he  is  arranging  parchments, 
plans,  and  arms.  To  him  enter  VEDIO. 


VEDIO 

ERE  is  a  letter  from  the 
commissary  of  the  Repub- 
lic. 

PRINZIVALLE 

*       From  Trivulzio? 


VEDIO 

Yes — Messer  Maladura,  the  second  com- 
missary, is  not  yet  returned. 
[47] 


MONNA    VANNA 


PRINZIVALLE 

It  must  be  that  the  Venetian  army  which 
threatens  Florence  through  the  Casentine  is 
not  so  easily  vanquished  as  they  had  hoped. 
«  Give  me  the  letter.  [Takes  the  letter  and 
reads  it.]  It  brings  me  for  the  last  time, 
under  pain  of  immediate  arrest,  the  order  in 
all  the  forms  to  attempt  the  assault  at  day- 
break. Well,  the  night  is  mine.  .  .  .  Im- 
mediate arrest !  They  have  no  suspicion.  .  .  . 
They  imagine  that  they  can  still  terrify,  by 
the  aid  of  old,  worn-out  words,  the  man  who 
waits  the  supreme  hour  of  his  life.  Threats, 
arrest,  trial,  judgment,  what  else  you  will — 
I  know  what  it  all  means.  Long  ago  they 
would  have  arrested  me  if  they  had  the 
power,  if  they  dared.  .  .  . 

VEDIO 

Messer  Trivulzio,  when  he  gave  me  the 
order,  said  that  he  would  follow  me  to  speak 
with  you. 

PRINZIVALLE 

He  has  at  last  made  up  his  mind  to  that  ? 
Then   it  will  be  decisive;  the   sorry  little 
[48] 


MONNA    VANNA 


scrivener,  that  stands  for  all  the  mysteri- 
ous power  of  Florence  here  and  dares  not 
look  me  in  the  face,  the  white-faced,  puny 
creature,  that  hates  me  worse  than  death, 
shall  pass  such  a  night  as  he  has  not  fore- 
seen! The  orders  must  be  grave,  for  him  to 
affront  the  monster  in  his  cage.  .  .  .  What 
guards  are  at  my  door? 

VEDIO 

Two  old  soldiers  of  your  Galician  troop — 
I  think  I  knew  the  features  of  Hernando; 
the  other  is,  I  fancy,  Diego.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Good — they  will  obey  me,  did  I  ordain 
them  to  throw  God  the  Father  into  chains. 
The  day  is  fading.  .  .  .  Have  the  lamps  lit. 
What  is  the  hour? 

VEDIO 

Past  nine. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Marco  Colonna  has  not  yet  returned? 
4  [49] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VEDIO 

I  gave  orders  to  the  watch  to  bring  him  to 
you  as  soon  as  he  crossed  the  moat. 

PRINZIVALLE 

He  was  to  be  here  before  nine  if  they  re- 
jected my  offer.  .  .  .  This  is  the  hour  that  tells 
the  tale  ;  ...  it  holds  my  life  within  it,  like 
the  mighty  ships  with  all  sails  spread  that 
the  prisoners  shut  within  a  bubble  of  glass, 
together  with  their  hopes  and  dreams.  .  .  . 
How  strange  it  is  that  a  man  can  place  his 
destiny,  his  heart  and  mind,  his  happiness 
or  woe,  on  so  frail  a  thing  as  a  woman's  love! 
...  I  should  laugh  at  it  myself,  if  it  were  not 
a  thing  beyond  my  laughter.  Marco  returns 
not.  ...  It  must  be  that  she  is  coming.  Go 
see  if  the  beacon  that  should  say  yes  is  there 
— the  light  in  the  heavens  that  heralds  the 
trembling  steps  of  her  that  gives  herself  for 
all,  and  comes  to  save  me  and  her  people  at 
once.  .  .  .  Nay,  I  will  go  myself.  No  other 
eyes,  even  a  friend's,  must  see  it  before  mine, 
must  delay  one  moment  the  joy  to  which  I 
have  looked  from  boyhood.  .  .  .  [Goes  to  door 
[50] 


MONNA    VANNA 


of  tent,  raises  the  tapestry,  and  looks  out  into 
the  night.]  Lo,  Vedio,  the  light!  See  how 
it  blazes  out  and  dazzles  the  night !  It  was 
the  campanile  that  should  bear  it — see,  it 
leans  out  over  the  shadows.  No  other  light 
shows  in  the  town.  Ah!  Pisa  has  never 
raised  aloft  a  more  splendid  ensign — never 
one  more  desired  or  less  hoped  for!  Ah,  my 
good  Pisans!  to-night  you  shall  celebrate 
an  hour  never  to  be  forgotten,  and  I  shall 
have  greater  joy  than  had  I  saved  the 
city  of  my  birth! 

VEDIO 

[Seizes  his  arm.]  Let  us  go  within  the  tent 
— yonder  comes  Messer  Trivulzio. 

PRINZIVALLE 

[Comes  down.]  True — there  is  yet  need. 
.  .  .  The  conference  shall  be  brief.  [Goes  to 
table  and  turns  over  the  papers.]  You  have 
his  three  letters? 

VEDIO 

There  were  but  two. 

[Si] 


MONNA    VANNA 


PRINZIVALLE 

The  two  that  I  seized,  and  this  evening's 
order. 

VEDIO 

Here  are  the  two  first — and  here  the  last; 
but  you  have  marred  it.  ... 

PRINZIVALLE 

I  hear  him.  .  .  . 

[A  guard  raises  the  curtain.  Enter  TRI- 
VULZIO. 

TRIVULZIO 

Have  you  remarked  the  unaccustomed 
light  that  burns  in  signal  from  the  cam- 
panile? 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  take  it  for  a  signal? 

TRIVULZIO 

Not  a  doubt  of  it.  ...  I  have  somewhat  to 
say  to  you,  Prinzivalle. 

PRINZIVALLE 

I  hear.  Leave  us,  Vedio — but  go  not  far. 
I  shall  have  need  of  you.  [Exit  VEDIO. 

[52] 


MONNA    VANNA 


TRIVULZIO 

You  know,  Prinzivalle,  the  esteem  in 
which  I  hold  you.  I  have  given  you  more 
than  one  proof  of  it  that  you  cannot  have 
forgotten — but  there  are  others  of  which  you 
are  ignorant;  for  the  policy  of  Florence,  that 
men  call  perfidious  while  it  is  but  prudent, 
requires  many  things  to  remain  hidden  for  a 
time,  even  from  those  who  are  most  in  her 
counsels.  We  all  obey  her  deep-laid  plans, 
and  each  man  must  bear  with  courage  the 
weight  of  the  mysteries  that  make  the 
strength  of  his  country.  Let  it  suffice  you 
to  know  that  I  have  ever  had  my  part  in  the 
decisions  that  have  raised  you  step  by  step, 
despite  your  youth  and  your  unknown 
origin,  to  the  command  of  the  Republic's 
finest  armies.  There  has  been  no  reason  to 
regret  our  choice;  yet,  for  some  time  past,  a 
party  has  been  taking  shape  against  you.  I 
am  not  so  sure  whether  the  real  friendship  I 
have  formed  for  you  does  not,  in  revealing 
these  plots,  trench  a  little  on  my  strict  duty; 
.  .  .  but  strict  duty  is  often  more  harmful 
than  the  most  wanton  generosity.  I  will  con- 
[531 


MONNA    VANNA 


fide  to  you,  then,  that  men  speak  bitterly 
of  your  delays  and  hesitations — some  even 
go  so  far  as  to  doubt  your  honor.  Precise 
accusations  have  come  to  confirm  their  sus- 
picions. They  have  made  an  evil  impres- 
sion on  that  part  of  the  Council  which  was 
already  ill-disposed  to  favor  you.  They 
went  so  far  as  to  deliberate  on  the  question 
of  arresting  and  judging  you.  By  good  fort- 
une, they  warned  me  first.  I  betook  myself 
to  Florence,  and  it  was  not  hard  to  oppose 
proofs  as  good  to  their  proofs.  I  answered 
for  you — and  it  is  your  turn  now  to  justify  my 
confidence,which  has  never  admitted  a  single 
doubt — for  we  are  lost  if  you  do  not  act. 
My  colleague,  Messer  Maladura,  is  held  in 
check  at  Bibbiena  by  the  troops  of  Venice; 
another  army  marches  on  Florence  from  the 
north.  The  very  safety  of  the  city  is  at 
stake.  All  may  be  repaired  if  to-morrow 
you  deliver  the  attack  so  long  awaited. 
'Twill  give  us  back  our  best  army,  and  the 
only  captain  whom  victory  has  always 
crowned;  it  will  permit  us  to  enter  Florence 
with  our  heads  high,  in  the  midst  of  a  triumph 
[54] 


MONNA    VANNA 


such  as  shall  render  your  enemies  of  yester- 
day your  most  fervent  admirers  and  parti- 
sans. .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  have  said  all  you  came  to  say? 

TRIVULZIO 

Nearly — though  I  have  said  little  of  the 
sincere  affection  which  since  I  first  knew  you 
has  but  grown  stronger  in  me,  .  .  .  despite  the 
difficulties  into  which  we  are  led  by  the  con- 
flict of  our  laws,  which  provide  that  the  gen- 
eral's power  shall  be  balanced,  in  moments 
of  peril,  by  the  mysterious  might  of  Florence, 
.  .  .  whose  humble  proctor  I  am  to-day,  amid 
all  the  splendor  and  the  clash  of  arms.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

This  order,  that  I  have  but  now  received, 
is  from  your  hand? 

TRIVULZIO 
It  is. 

PRINZIVALLE 

The  writing  is  your  own? 
[55] 


MONN  A    VANNA 


TRIVULZIO 

Undoubtedly — do  you  question  it? 

PRINZIVALLE 

And  these  two  letters — do  you  acknowl- 
edge them? 

TRIVULZIO 

It  may  be.  ...  I  know  not.  .  .  .  What  do 
they  contain  ?  That  I  should  first  know.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

There  is  no  need — /  know! 

TRIVULZIO 

They  are  the  two  letters  you  intercepted, 
as  I  meant  you  should?  I  see  the  test  was 
good. 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  had  not  to  do  with  a  child.  Let  us 
have  an  end  of  these  miserable  shifts,  and 
not  prolong  a  meeting  that  I  am  in  haste  to 
finish,  that  I  may  receive  a  recompense  such 
as  no  Florentine  triumph  could  ever  equal. 
In  these  same  letters  you  denounce  all  my 
acts,  basely,  falsely,  without  avowable  mo- 
[56] 


MONNA    VANNA 


tive,  for  the  sole  pleasure  of  injuring  an- 
other, and  to  furnish  in  advance  the  pretext 
indispensable  to  the  thankless  avarice  of 
Florence,  that  fears  once  again  lest  her  re- 
ward to  a  victorious  soldier  cost  her  too  dear. 
All  is  travestied  there  with  so  treacherous 
a  skill  that  there  were  moments  when  I 
doubted  of  my  own  innocence!  All  is  de- 
formed, poisoned,  abased  by  your  weak  and 
purblind  envy,  by  your  bitter  hate — from 
the  first  week  of  the  siege  until  the  day,  the 
happy  day,  when  at  last  I  have  opened  my 
eyes,  and  am  at  last  about  to  justify  your 
suspicions.  I  copied  your  letters  with  care; 
I  sent  them  to  Florence,  and  I  surprised 
the' answers.  They  take  you  at  your  word 
— the  more  readily  as  they  themselves  fur- 
nished you  with  the  theme  of  your  accusa- 
tions. They  judge  me  unheard,  and  con- 
demn me  to  death  already.  After  that,  I 
know  that  were  I  clothed  in  the  innocence 
of  archangels  I  should  not  escape  from  the 
proofs  that  are  to  overwhelm  me.  There- 
fore, at  a  bound,  I  break  your  paltry  chains, 
and  I  attack  the  first.  Hitherto  I  have  been 
[57] 


MONN  A    VANNA 


no  traitor;  but  since  these  letters  I  have  pre- 
pared your  ruin.  This  night  I  shall  sell  you, 
you  and  your  sorry  masters,  as  cruelly  and 
as  finally  as  I  may.  I  shall  think  that  never 
in  my  life  have  I  accomplished  an  act  more 
salutary  than  in  thus  abasing,  to  the  utmost 
of  my  power,  the  only  state  that  places  per- 
fidy in  the  number  of  its  civic  virtues,  and 
wills  that  hypocrisy,  ingratitude,  villany,  and 
falsehood  shall  govern  the  world!  This 
evening,  by  my  act,  your  ancient  foe,  that 
hinders  and  will  hinder  you  while  she  lives 
from  leaving  your  own  walls  to  corrupt  the 
world — this  night  Pisa  shall  be  saved  and 
shall  rise  to  brave  you  once  again.  Do  not 
spring  up  and  make  useless  gestures.  My 
measures  are  taken — it  is  the  inevitable. 
You  are  in  my  power — and,  as  I  hold  you, 
so  methinks  I  hold  the  destinies  of  Flor- 
ence. .  .  . 

TRIVULZIO 

[Draws  his  dagger  and  strikes  rapidly  athim.] 
Not  yet — while  my  hands  are  free!  .  .  . 

[PRINZIVALLE   parries  the  stroke  in- 
stinctively with  his  arm,  and  thus 
C58] 


MONNA    VANNA 


strikes  up  the  blade  so  that  it  scratch- 
es his  face.  He  seizes  TRIVULZIO  by 
the  wrist. 

PRINZIVALLE 

•  Ah ! .  .  .  I  did  not  think  of  your  convulsive 
terror.  .  .  .  But  now  you  are  in  my  hands — 
and  you  feel  that  one  of  them  is  stronger 
than  your  whole  body.  Here  is  your  dagger, 
now.  I  have  but  to  turn  it  downward.  .  .  . 
It  seems  of  its  own  free  will  to  seek  your 
throat.  .  .  .  Not  a  quiver  of  your  eyelids — 
you  have  no  fear? 

TRIVULZIO 

[Coldly]  No — strike !     It  is  your  right.    I 
staked  my  life.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

[Loosens  his  hold.}  Truly?  .  .  .  Then  your 
act  is  curious  and  even  rare.  There  are  not 
so  many  among  our  rude  warriors  that  would 
have  thrown  themselves  thus  into  the  very 
jaws  of  death — I  would  not  have  believed 
that  in  this  frail  body  .  .  . 
[59] 


MONNA    VANNA 


TRIVULZIO 

You  that  have  always  the  sword  in  your 
hand  are  too  much  given  to  believing  that 
there  is  no  other  courage  than  that  which 
shines  from  its  point.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  may  be  right.  .  .  .  Good!  You  are 
not  free,  but  no  harm  shall  come  to  you.  We 
serve  different  gods,  that  is  all.  .  .  .  [Wipes 
the  blood  from  his  face.]  Ah,  I  am  bleeding — 
the  stroke  was  a  shrewd  one;  a  little  over- 
hasty,  but  vigorous.  'Twas  near  enough, 
on  my  word!  Tell  me,  now,  what  would 
you  do  if  you  held  in  your  power  a  man  who 
had  been  so  near  sending  you  on  the  instant 
to  a  world  where  no  one  longs  to  go? 

TRIVULZIO 
I  would  not  spare  him. 

PRINZIVALLE 

I  cannot  fathom  you — you  are  a  strange 
being.     Confess  that  your  letters  were  base. 
...  I  had  shed  my  blood  in  three  great  bat- 
[60] 


MONNA    VANNA 


ties ;  I  was  doing  my  utmost ;  all  was  yours ; 
I  served  loyally  those  who  had  made  choice 
of  me,  without  a  single  dishonest  thought 
in  my  heart.  You  must  know  that,  since 
you  spied  upon  me.  .  .  .  And  yet  in  your  let- 
ters, were  it  from  hatred,  from  envy,  or  to 
save  a  few  gold  pieces,  you  gave  a  false  color 
to  all  the  deeds  that  were  done  to  save  your 
cause ;  you  lied  knowingly — you  heaped  lie 
upon  lie.  .  .  . 

TRIVULZIO 

It  matters  little  that  what  I  wrote  was 
false.  It  was  my  task  to  seize  the  danger- 
ous hour  when  the  soldier,  puffed  up  with 
two  or  three  victories — the  number  varies 
little — is  about  to  disobey  the  masters  who 
employ  him — those  who  have  a  higher  mis- 
sion in  the  world  than  his.  This  hour  proves 
that  the  other  was  near.  The  populace  of 
Florence  love  you  too  much  already — it  is 
our  task  to  remove  the  idols  they  set  up. 
They  look  askance  at  us  for  the  moment — 
but  they  have  created  us  to  cross  their  per- 
ilous caprices  for  them.  They  know  their 
end  in  life  better  than  might  be  supposed, 
[61] 


MONNA    VANNA 


and  when  we  destroy  what  they  have  adored 
too  long,  they  feel  that  we  do  but  accom- 
plish their  own  will  in  spite  of  them.  So  I 
knew  that  the  hour  had  come  to  warn  Flor- 
ence of  its  idol;  it  knew  what  my  lies 
meant.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

The  hour  had  not  come  —  would  never 
have  come  if  your  hideous  letters  .  .  . 

TRIVULZIO 

It  might  have  come — that  was  enough  for 
me. 

PRINZIVALLE 

What!  An  innocent  man  sacrificed  on  a 
mere  suspicion,  without  regret,  to  avert  a 
danger  that  in  a  certain  case  might  possibly 
have  been  a  real  one !  .  .  . 

TRIVULZIO 

One  man  weighs  but  little  in  the  scale, 
with  Florence  in  the  other. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Then  you  believe  in  the  destiny  of  Flor- 
[62] 


MONNA    VANNA 


ence — in  her  work,  in  her  life?     She  means 
something  to  you  that  I  cannot  understand. 

TRIVULZIO 

I  believe  only  in  her — the  rest  is  nothing 
to  me. 

PRINZIVALLE 

After  all,  it  is  possible.  .  .  .  And  you  are 
right,  since  you  believe  in  it.  I  have  no 
country.  ...  I  cannot  know.  ...  It  seems  to 
me  at  times  that  I  should  have  had  one.  .  .  . 
But  I  have  all  else  that  you  will  never  have 
— that  no  man  has  had  in  such  full  measure. 
...  I  shall  have  it  here — now — in  a  moment. 
.  .  .  This  is  enough  to  make  up  for  all! 
Come,  let  us  break  off — we  have  not  the 
time  to  balance  these  enigmas.  Every  man 
has  his  destiny ;  one  has  an  idea,  and  another 
a  desire.  And  it  would  cost  you  as  much  to 
change  your  idea  as  me  to  change  my  desire. 
We  follow  them  to  the  end,  when  we  have  a 
stronger  soul  than  the  multitude — and  that 
which  we  do  is  just,  since  we  have  so  little  free- 
dom to  choose.  .  .  .  Farewell,  Trivulzio — our 
ways  lead  asunder.  .  .  .  Give  me  your  hand. 
[63] 


MONNA    VANNA 


TRIVULZIO 

Not  yet.  ...  I  will  offer  you  mine  in  the 
day  when  judgment  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

So  be  it.     You  lose  to-day — you  will  win 
to-morrow.     [Calls.]     Vedio! 

[Re-enter  VEDIO. 

VEDIO 

What,  master!     You  are  wounded?     The 
blood  flows.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

It  is  a  trifle.     Call  my  two  guards.     Let 
them  take  this  man  away  without  ill-treat- 
ing him.  . ,  .  He  is  a  foe  that  I  love.     They 
will  put  him  in  a  sure  place,  and  let  no  man 
see.     I  hold  them  to  account  for  him;  they 
are  to  yield  him  up  only  when  I  give  order. 
[Exit  VEDIO,  taking  TRIVULZIO  with 
him.     PRINZIVALLE  goes  to  mirror 
and  examines  his  wound. 

I  bleed  as  if  the  wound  were  mortal.  .  .  . 
It  is  not  deep,  but  the  half  of  my  face  is 
[64] 


MONNA    VANNA 


torn.  Who  would  have  believed  that  so 
white  and  frail  a  creature  .  .  .  ?  [Re-enter 
VEDIO.]  Tis  done? 

VEDIO 

Ay — but,  master,  you  go  that  way  to 
your  ruin. 

PRINZIVALLE 

That  way?  I  would  go  that  way  to  my 
death !  Never  a  man  since  the  world  began 
will  have  thus  gained,  in  a' just  vengeance, 
the  only  joy  he  has  dreamed  since  he  knew 
how  to  dream  at  all !  I  would  have  waited 
and  watched  for  it,  and  pursued  it  through 
all  the  crimes,  for  it  was  mine  by  right ;  and 
now  that  my  good  star  sends  it  down  to  me 
upon  its  silver  rays,  in  the  name  of  justice, 
in  the  name  of  pity,  you  say  to  yourself, 
"He  goes  to  his  ruin ! ' '  Poor  creatures  with- 
out a  spark  of  the  divine  flame,  men  without 
love!  Why,  you  do  not  know  that  at  this 
hour  my  destiny  is  being  weighed  in  heaven, 
that  they  are  piling  up  there  what  should 
have  gone  to  make  a  hundred  joys,  for 
a  thousand  lovers!  Ah,  7  know!  I  am  at 
*  [65] 


MONNA    VANNA 


the  point  where  those  who  are  born  to  a 
noble  triumph  or  a  great  disaster  find  them- 
selves suddenly  on  the  very  pinnacle  of  their 
lives,  where  everything  upholds  them,  ev- 
erything balances  them  there,  everything 
gives  itself  to  them!  And  what  is  that 
which  follows  to  them  ?  We  know  that  man 
is  not  made  for  such  triumphs,  and  that 
those  who  gain  them  sink  under  their 
weight,  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 

VEDIO 

[Approaches,  with  white  linen.]  The  blood 
still  flows.  .  .  .  Let  me  bandage  your  face. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Well,  since  it  must  be.  .  .  .  But  see  that 
your  linen  does  not  cover  my  eyes  or  enfold 
my  lips.  .  .  .  [Looks  at  himself  in  the  mirror.] 
Ah!  I  am  more  like  a  wounded  man  that 
flees  the  surgeon  than  a  lover  that  will  soon 
leap  to  meet  his  love.  Not  so.Vedio,  .  .  .  not 
so.  ...  And  you,  my  poor  Vedio,  what  will 
become  of  you  ? 

VEDIO 

Master,  I  follow  you. 
[66] 


MONNA    VANNA 


PRINZIVALLE 

Nay  —  leave  me,  rather.  I  know  not 
where  I  shall  go  or  what  shall  be  my 
fate.  You  may  escape  —  no  man  will  pur- 
sue you;  whereas  with  your  master  .  .  . 
I  have  gold  in  these  coffers ;  .  .  .  take 
it  —  it  is  yours.  I  have  no  more  need 
of  it.  The  wagons  are  harnessed,  the 
flocks  gathered  ? 

VEDIO 
You  may  see  them  from  the  tent-door. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Good!  When  I  give  the  signal,  do  what 
is  to  be  done.  [A  shot  heard  off  at  some 
distance.]  What  is  that? 

VEDIO 
They  are  firing  on  the  outposts. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Who  gave  the  order?  It  must  have  been 
mistaken.  ...  If  it  should  be  on  her!  .  .  . 
You  warned  them? 

[67J 


MONNA    VANNA 


VEDIO 

Ay;  ...  it  is  impossible.  I  have  posted 
guards  that  will  lead  her  to  you  when  she 
appears.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Go  and  see. 

[Exit  VEDIO.  PRINZIVALLE  remains 
alone  a  moment.  Then  VEDIO  re- 
enters,  raises  the  tapestry  over  the 
door  of  the  tent,  and  says  in  a  low 
voice,  "Master!"  Then  he  retires, 
and  MONNA  VANNA,  closely  wrapped 
in  a  long  cloak,  appears  and  stops 
in  entrance.  PRINZIVALLE  trem- 
bles violently,  then  takes  a  step  tow- 
ards her. 

VANNA 

[In  a  choked  voice.]  I  come  as  you  have 
willed.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

There  is  blood  on  your  hand!  You  are 
wounded  ? 

VANNA 

A  bullet  grazed  my  shoulder.  .  .  . 
[68] 


MONNA    VANNA 


PRINZIVALLE 

When  ?     Where  ?     This  is  horrible ! 

VANNA 

As  I  drew  near  the  camp. 

PRINZIVALLE 

But  who  dared  to  fire?  .  .  . 

VANNA 

I  do  not  know — the  man  fled. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Show  me  the  wound. 

VANNA 

[Opening  the  upper  part  of  cloak.]  It  is 
here.  .  -.  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Above  the  left  breast.  ...  It  has  not 
penetrated — the  skin  alone  is  touched.  .  .  . 
Are  you  in  pain  ? 

VANNA 

No. 

[69] 


MONNA    VANNA 


PRINZIVALLE 

Will  you  let  me  have  it  dressed? 

VANNA 

No. 

[Pause. 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  are  decided?  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Yes. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Need  I  recall  the  terms  of  the  .  .  . 

VANNA 

It  is  useless — I  know  them. 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  do  not  regret?  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Was  it  in  the  bond  that  I  should  come  with- 
out regret  ? 

PRINZIVALLE 

Your  lord  consents? 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

Yes. 

PRINZIVALLE 

It  is  my  mind  to  leave  you  free.  .  .  .  There 
is  yet  time,  should  you  desire  to  re- 
nounce. .  .  . 

VANNA 

No. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Why  have  you  done  this? 

VANNA 

Because  they  were  dying  of  hunger,  and 
would  have  died  more  speedily  to-morrow. 

PRINZIVALLE 

No  other  reason  ? 

VANNA 

What  other  could  there  be? 

PRINZIVALLE 

I  know  that  a  virtuous  woman  .  .  . 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

Yes  ... 

PRINZIVALLE 

One  that   loves  her  husband  .  .  .  with 
all  her  heart  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Yes  ... 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  have  put  off  your  garments,  all  but 
this  cloak? 

VANNA 

Yes. 

[Makes  a  gesture  as  if  to  prove  it  by 
throwing  open  the  cloak.  PRINZI- 
VALLE stops  her  by  a  sign. 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  have  seen  the  wagons  and  the  herds 
ranged  before  the  tent? 

VANNA 

Yes. 

PRINZIVALLE 

There  are  two  hundred  wagons  filled  with 
the  best  grain  of  Tuscany;  two  hundred 
[72] 


MONNA    VANNA 


more  that  bear  forage  for  the  beasts;  fruit 
and  wine  from  the  country  of  Sienna ;  thirty 
more  of  powder  brought  from  Germany,  and 
fifteen  lesser  ones  of  lead.  Near  them  stand 
six  hundred  Apulian  cattle,  and  twice  as 
many  sheep.  All  these  await  but  your  word 
to  go  on  their  way  to  Pisa.  Would  you  see 
them  go? 

VANNA 

Yes. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Come  to  the  tent-door. 

[He  raises  the  curtain,  gives  an  order, 
and  waves  his  hand.  A  deep,  con- 
fused noise  begins.  Torches  are  lit 
and  waved  about,  whips  crack,  the 
wagons  begin  to  move,  the  animals 
utter  their  various  cries  and  are  set 
in  motion.  VANNA  and  PRINZI- 
VALLE, standing  in  the  tent -door, 
watch  the  huge  convoy  going  off  by 
torchlight  into  the  starry  night. 

From  this  hour,  thanks  to  you,  Pisa  shall 
go  hungry  no  more.     She  regains  her  might, 
[73] 


MONNA    VANNA 


and  to-morrow  she  shall  sing  with  the  joy 
and  the  glory  of  a  triumph  that  no  man 
hoped  for.  Is  that  enough  for  you  ? 

VANNA 

Yes. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Let  us  close  the  curtains — give  me  your 
hand.  The  evening  has  been  pleasant,  but 
the  night  grows  cold.  You  have  come  un- 
armed, with  no  hidden  poison? 

VANNA 

I  have  but  my  sandals  and  this  cloak. 
Strip  me  of  all  if  you  fear  treachery. 

PRINZIVALLE 

It  is  not  for  myself  that  I  fear,  but  for 
you. 

VANNA 

I  count  not  these  things  as  more  than 
their  li ves. 

PRINZIVALLE 

That  is  well — you  are  right.     Come  and 
rest  a  little.     This  is  a  soldier's  couch,  rough 
[74] 


MONNA    VANNA 


and  hard,  narrow  as  the  grave,  and  little 
worthy  of  you.  Rest  here,  upon  these  skins 
of  aurochs  and  of  great  rams  that  do  not 
know  yet  how  soft  and  precious  a  thing  a 
woman's  body  is.  Place  beneath  your  head 
this  gentler  cushion  —  it  is  a  lynx's  skin, 
given  me  by  an  African  king  on  a  night  of 
victory.  [VANNA  sits,  closely  wrapped  in  her 
cloak.]  The  brightness  of  the  lamp  falls  in 
your  eyes — shall  I  remove  it? 

VANNA 

It  matters  little. 

PRINZIVALLE 

[Kneels  at  foot  of  couch  and  seizes  her  hand.] 
Giovanna!  [VANNA  raises  her  head,  startled, 
and  looks  at  him]  Oh,  Vanna — my  Vanna! 
Yes,  I,  too,  have  been  accustomed  so  to 
call  you;  but  now  I  have  scarce  strength  to 
speak  the  name.  It  has  been  so  long  a  time 
shut  a  prisoner  in  my  heart  that  it  can  no 
more  issue  without  rending  its  prison.  Nay, 
it  is  my  heart — I  have  no  other!  Each  of 
its  syllables  holds  my  whole  life;  when  I 
[75] 


MONNA    VANNA 


speak  them,  it  is  my  life  that  flows  away. 
It  was  familiar  to  me ;  I  thought  I  knew  it ;  I 
was  no  longer  afraid  of  it  when  I  had  so 
often  said  it.  For  years  past,  every  hour  of 
every  day,  I  have  repeated  it  as  some  mighty 
word  of  love,  some  spell  that  one  must  some 
day  have  courage  to  pronounce  at  last,  were 
it  but  once,  in  the  presence  of  her  whom  it 
summoned  in  vain.  ...  I  believed  that  my 
lips  had  taken  the  shape  of  it,  that  at  the 
supreme  moment  they  would  know  how  to 
say  it  with  such  sweetness  and  respect,  with 
so  humble  and  profound  a  meekness,  that 
she  who  heard  it  would  understand  all  the 
love  and  all  the  pain  it  held  for  me.  But 
to-night  it  calls  up  no  more  than  a  shadow. 
It  is  no  longer  the  same.  I  do  not  know  it 
when  it  issues  from  my  mouth,  broken  with 
sobs  and  tremulous  with  tears.  I  have  put 
too  much  within  it;  all  the  emotion,  all 
the  adoration  that  I  have  imprisoned  there 
break  my  strength,  and  my  voice  dies 
away.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Who  are  you? 

I  76] 


MONNA    VANNA 


PRINZIVALLE 

You  do  not  know  me  ? .  .  .  You  recall  noth- 
ing? Ah,  how  time  effaces  miracles!  But 
I  was  the  only  one  that  saw  them.  .  .  .  Per- 
chance it  is  better  that  they  should  be  for- 
gotten. ...  I  shall  have  no  more  hope — I 
shall  the  less  regret.  Nay,  I  am  nothing  to 
you.  I  am  but  a  poor  wretch  whose  eyes 
rest  for  one  moment  on  the  goal  of  his  whole 
life.  I  am  an  unhappy  man  that  asks  noth- 
ing, that  knows  not  even  what  he  should  ask, 
but  who  longs  to  tell  you,  if  the  thing  is  pos- 
sible, that  you  may  know  before  you  leave 
him,  what  you  have  been — ay!  shall  be  to 
the  end  in  his  life. 

VANNA 

You  know  me,  then?     Who  are  you? 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  have  never  seen  the  man  who  gazes 
on  you,  as  one  might  gaze,  in  an  enchanted 
world,  on  the  source  of  all  his  joy  and  of  his 
very  life,  ...  as  I  had  never  hoped  to  look 
upon  you? 

[77] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

No ;  ...  at  least  I  do  not  think  so. 

PRINZIVALLE 

True,  you  did  not  know — I  was  sure,  alas! 
that  you  knew  no  longer.  You  were  eight 
years  old,  and  I  was  twelve,  when  I  crossed 
your  path  for  the  first  time.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Where  was  that? 

PRINZIVALLE 

At  Venice ;  ...  it  was  a  Sunday  in  June. 
My  father,  the  old  goldsmith,  brought  a  col- 
lar of  pearls  to  your  lady  mother.  While 
she  admired  them,  I  strayed  into  the  garden. 
.  .  .  There  I  found  you,  under  the  myrtles, 
near  a  fountain  of  marble.  A  tiny,  golden 
ring  had  fallen  into  the  water — you  were 
weeping  on  the  brink.  I  plunged  into  the 
water  and  went  near  to  drown,  .  .  .  but  I 
grasped  the  ring,  and  placed  it  again  upon 
your  finger.  You  kissed"  me  and  were  hap- 
py  

[78] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

That  was  a  fair -haired  boy  named  Gia- 
nello.  .  .  .  You  are  Gianello? 

PRINZIVALLE 

I  am  he. 

VANNA 

Who  would  have  known  you?  And  then 
your  face  is  hidden  by  these  bandages.  I 
can  only  see  your  eyes. 

PRINZIVALLE 

[Pushes  the  bandages  aside.]  Do  you  know 
me  when  I  remove  them? 

VANNA 

Yes — perhaps — methinks — for  you  have 
still  a  boy's  smile.  But  you  are  wounded, 
too,  and  bleeding.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Ah,  that  is  nothing  to  me.  But  for  you  it  is 
horrible.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

The  blood  stains  through  everything.  .  .  . 
[79] 


MONNA    VANNA 


Let  me  set  this  bandage  —  it  was  ill  tied. 
[She  readjusts  the  bandage.]  I  have  often 
tended  the  wounded  in  this  war.  .  .  .  Yes,  I 
bethink  me.  ...  I  see  again  the  garden,  with 
its  pomegranates,  its  laurels,  and  its  roses. 
We  played  there  more  than  one  afternoon, 
when  the  earth  was  warm  and  sunny.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Twelve  times.  ...  I  kept  count.  ...  I 
could  tell  you  all  our  games,  and  every  word 
of  yours.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Then  one  day  I  looked  for  you  .  .  .  for  I 
loved  you  well.  .  .  .  You  were  grave  and  ten- 
der as  a  girl,  and  you  looked  up  at  me  as 
though  I  were  a  young  queen.  ...  But  you 
did  not  come.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

My  father  took  me  with  him  when  he  went 
to  Africa.  .  .  .  We  lost  ourselves  in  those  far- 
off  deserts.  I  was  a  prisoner  of  the  Arabs, 
of  the  Turks,  of  the  Spaniards,  of  whom  you 
will.  .  .  .  When  I  came  back  to  Venice,  your 
[80] 


MONNA    VANNA 


mother  was  dead  and  the  garden  lay  waste. 
I  lost  all  trace  of  you — then  I  found  it  again, 
thanks  to  your  beauty,  which  left  an  inef- 
faceable memory  wherever  it  passed.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

You  knew  me  on  the  instant  when  I  came 
in  hither? 

PRINZIVALLE 

Had  there  come  ten  thousand  of  you  into 
my  tent,  all  clad  alike,  all  equally  fair,  ten 
thousand  sisters  whom  even  their  mother 
would  not  know  apart,  I  should  have  risen, 
should  have  taken  your  hand,  and  said, 
"This  is  she!"  Is  it  not  strange  that  a  be- 
loved image  can  live  thus  in  a  man's  heart  ? 
For  yours  lived  so  in  mine  that  each  day  it 
changed  as  in  real  life — the  image  of  to-day 
replaced  that  of  yesterday  —  it  blossomed 
out,  it  became  always  fairer;  and  the  years 
adorned  it  with  all  that  they  add  to  a  child 
that  grows  in  grace  and  beauty.  But  when 
I  saw  you  again,  it  seemed  to  me  at  first  that 
my  eyes  deceived  me.  My  memories  were 
so  fair  and  so  fond — but  they  had  been  too 
6  [81] 


MONNA    VANNA 


slow  and  too  timid — they  had  not  dared  to 
give  you  all  the  splendor  which  appeared  so 
suddenly  to  dazzle  me.  I  was  as  a  man  that 
recalled  to  mind  a  flower  he  had  but  seen  in 
passing  through  a  garden  on  a  gray  day,  and 
should  be  suddenly  confronted  with  a  hun- 
dred thousand  as  fair  in  a  field  bathed  with 
sunshine.  I  saw  once  more  your  hair,  your 
brow,  your  eyes,  and  I  found  all  the  soul  of 
the  face  I  had  adored — but  how  its  beauty 
shames  that  which  I  had  treasured  in  silence 
through  endless  days,  through  years  whose 
only  light  was  a  memory  that  had  taken 
too  long  a  road  and  found  itself  outshone 
by  the  reality ! 

VANNA 

Yes;  you  loved  me  as  boys  can  love;  but 
time  and  absence  deck  love  in  flattering 
colors.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Men  often  say  they  have  but  one  love  in 
their  life — and  it  is  seldom  true.  .  .  .  They 
trick  out  their  desire  or  their  indifference 
with  the  marvellous  unhappiness  that  be- 
longs to  those  who  are  created  for  this  single 
[82] 


MONNA    VANNA 


love.  When  one  of  these,  speaking  the 
same  words  that  are  but  a  lie  upon  the  lips 
of  the  others,  comes  to  tell  the  profound  and 
grievous  truth  that  ravages  his  life,  lo!  the 
words  too  often  used  by  happy  lovers  have 
lost  all  their  force,  all  their  weight;  and  she 
who  hears  them  unthinkingly  rates  the  poor 
words,  so  sacred  and  often  so  sad,  at  their 
profane  value,  in  the  smiling  sense  that  they 
have  among  other  men.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

I  shall  not  do  that.  I  know  what  is  this 
love  that  we  all  wait  for  when  we  set  out  in 
life,  but  renounce  when  the  years  .  .  .  though 
my  years  are  not  so  many ! .  . .  dull  the  bright 
vision.  But  when,  after  you  had  passed 
through  Venice,  you  came  again  upon  the 
trace  of  me,  what  befell?  You  did  not  seek 
to  stand  in  the  presence  of  her  you  loved  so 
much? 

PRINZIVALLE 

At  Venice  they  told  me  that  your  mother 
had  died  in  poverty,  and  that  you  married 
a  great  lord  of  Tuscany,  the  richest  and  most 
[83] 


MONNA    VANNA 


powerful  man  of  Pisa,  who  should  make  of 
you  a  worshipped  and  happy  queen.  I  had 
naught  to  offer  you  but  the  wandering  mis- 
ery of  an  adventurer  without  a  country  or  a 
home.  Methought  that  destiny  demanded 
of  my  love  the  sacrifice  I  made.  I  have 
roved  many  a  time  near  this  city,  lingering 
beneath  its  walls,  clinging  to  the  chains  of  its 
gates  that  I  might  not  succumb  to  the  desire 
of  seeing  you,  might  not  trouble  the  joy  and 
love  that  you  had  found.  ...  I  sold  my 
sword.  I  made  two  or  three  wars ;  my  name 
grew  famous  among  mercenary  captains.  I 
waited  days  and  days,  hoping  no  longer, 
until  the  hour  that  Florence  sent  me  to 
Pisa.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

How  weak  and  cowardly  men  are  when 
they  love!  .  .  .  Do  not  deceive  yourself.  I 
have  no  love  for  you,  and  I  dare  not  even 
say  that  I  had.  But  it  makes  the  very  soul 
of  love  start  and  cry  out  within  me  when  I 
see  a  man  that  loved  me  as  it  might  have 
been  that  I  loved  him  without  courage  in 
presence  of  his  love ! 

[84] 


MONNA    VANNA 


PRINZIVALLE 

Courage  I  had — it  needed  more  than  you 
believe  not  to  seek  to  see  you.  .  .  .  But  it 
was  too  late. 

VANNA 

It  was  not  too  late  when  you  left  Venice. 
It  is  never  too  late  when  one  finds  a  love  that 
fills  the  whole  life.  Such  a  love  never  aban- 
dons its  hold;  when  it  looks  for  no  reward,  it 
hopes  yet.  Though  it  should  not  even  hope, 
it  strives  none  the  less.  If  I  had  loved  like 
you,  I  would  have — .  .  .  Ah,  one  cannot  say 
what  one  would  have  done!  .  .  .  But  I  know 
that  Fate  should  not  have  snatched  my  hope 
from  me  without  a  struggle.  I  would  have 
pursued  it  day  and  night.  I  would  have  said 
to  Destiny,  "Stand  from  out  my  path!"  I 
would  have  summoned  the  very  stones  to  take 
my  part ;  and  it  would  have  needed  that  he 
whom  I  loved  himself  knew  and  pronounced 
my  sentence — ay,  pronounced  it  more  than 
once! 

PRINZIVALLE 

[His  hand  seeking  hers.]  You  do  not  love 
him,  Vanna? 

[85] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

Whom? 

PRINZIVALLE 

Guido?  .  .  . 

VANNA 

[Withdraws  her  hand.]  You  must  not  seek 
my  hand — I  do  not  give  it.  I  see  that  my 
words  should  be  clearer.  When  Guido  took 
me  to  wife,  I  was  alone  and  poor,  and  a 
woman  in  such  a  state — above  all,  if  she  is 
beautiful  and  cannot  stoop  to  easy  lies — be- 
comes the  prey  of  a  thousand  calumnies. 
But  Guido  cared  not — he  had  faith  in  me, 
and  his  faith  pleased  my  heart.  He  has 
made  me  happy — as  happy  as  one  may  be 
that  has  renounced  the  dreams  a  little  wild 
that  seem  not  made  for  our  life  here  below. 
And  you,  too,  will  see — I  can  almost  say  I 
hope  it — that  a  man  may  be  happy  without 
passing  all  his  days  in  waiting  for  a  joy  such 
as  none  has  ever  known.  ...  I  love  Guido 
with  a  love  less  wonderful,  it  may  be,  than 
that  which  you  have  thought  to  have,  but 
more  equal,  constant,  and  sure.  This  is  the 
[86] 


MONNA    VANNA 


love  that  Fate  has  given  me.  I  shall  know 
no  other;  and  if  it  is  broken,  it  will  not  be 
by  my  hand.  You  have  erred.  If  I  have 
found  words  that  express  your  error,  it  was 
not  for  myself  nor  for  you  that  I  spoke  thus ; 
it  was  in  the  name  of  a  love  that  the  heart 
sees  in  vision  at  the  dawn  of  life,  that  exists, 
perhaps,  but  is  not  mine,  .  .  .  and  is  not  yours, 
since  you  have  not  done  what  such  a  love 
would  have  done.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  judge  me  harshly,  Vanna,  without 
sufficient  knowledge  of  all  that  I  have  suf- 
fered, all  that  I  have  had  to  do,  to  bring 
about  this  wonderful  hour  that  would  make 
the  despair  of  all  other  loves.  Yet  if  my 
love  had  done  nothing,  attempted  nothing,  I 
know  still  that  it  exists,  I  who  am  its  victim, 
I  who  carry  it  within  my  breast,  I  whose 
very  life  it  devours,  taking  away  all  that 
makes  the  glory  and  the  joy  of  men.  Since 
it  came  upon  me,  I  have  taken  no  step  whose 
purpose  was  not  to  bring  me  nearer  its  goal, 
to  question  my  destiny  without  harm  to  you. 
[87] 


MONNA    VANNA 


Ah,  you  may  believe  me,  Vanna — men  will 
believe  those  who  hope  nothing  and  ask 
nothing.  ...  I  have  but  to  speak  one  word, 
to  stretch  out  my  arms,  and  I  possess  all  that 
a  common  love  may  possess.  But  methinks 
you  know  as  well  as  I  that  the  love  of  which 
I  speak  has  need  of  another  sort  of  satis- 
faction. Therefore,  I  pray  you  to  doubt  no 
longer.  This  hand  that  I  took,  because  I 
thought  you  would  believe  me,  I  shall  touch 
it  not  again,  neither  with  lips  nor  fingers. 
But,  at  least,  Vanna,  when  we  part  forever, 
I  would  have  you  convinced  that  this  love 
has  been  always  yours,  and  has  halted  only 
before  the  impossible. 

VANNA 

It  is  because  anything  has  seemed  impos- 
sible to  it  that  I  venture  still  to  doubt  of  it. 
Think  not  I  should  have  rejoiced  to  see  you 
surmount  fearful  obstacles,  nor  that  I  de- 
mand superhuman  proofs.  .  .  .  They  tell  the 
story  that  one  day  in  Pisa  a  maiden  threw 
her  glove  into  the  lions'  den,  behind  the  cam- 
panile, and  prayed  her  lover  to  go  seek  it 
[88] 


MONNA    VANNA 


there.  He  had  no  other  arms  than  a  leath- 
ern whip;  yet  he  leaped  down,  drove  the 
lions  aside,  took  up  the  glove,  knelt  and  gave 
it  her,  and  departed  forever  without  a  word. 
Methinks  he  was  too  gentle.  His  whip  was 
in  his  hand ;  he  should  have  used  it  to  teach 
her  that  could  so  play  with  a  divine  thing 
more  of  the  rights  and  duties  of  true  love. 
I  do  not  ask,  then,  that  you  shall  furnish  me 
such  proofs — I  ask  nothing  better  than  to 
believe  you.  Yet  it  is  for  your  welfare  and 
my  own  alike  that  I  am  forced  to  doubt.  .  .  . 
There  is  in  a  single-hearted  devotion  like 
yours  something  sacred  that  must  disquiet 
the  coldest  and  most  virtuous  of  women.  .  .  . 
Therefore,  I  examine  what  you  have  done, 
and  should  be  wellnigh  happy  to  find  noth- 
ing there  that  bore  the  sign  of  this  great 
passion  so  rarely  blessed.  ...  I  should  be  al- 
most sure  not  to  find  it  there,  if  your  last  act 
— in  that  you  have  cast  into  the  abyss  your 
past,  your  future,  your  glory,  your  life,  only 
to  bring  me  for  an  hour  to  your  tent — did 
not  force  me  to  say  that  it  may  be  you  are 
right.  .  .  . 

[89] 


MONNA    VANNA 


PRINZIVALLE 

This  last  act  is  the  only  one  that  proves 
nothing. 

VANNA 

How  can  that  be? 

PRINZIVALLE 

I  would  rather  tell  you  the  truth.  .  .  . 
When  I  made  you  come  hither,  to  save  Pisa 
in  your  name,  I  sacrificed  nothing.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

I  cannot  understand.  .  .  .  You  have  not 
betrayed  your  country?  You  have  not  de- 
stroyed your  past?  You  have  not  con- 
demned yourself  to  exile,  perchance  to 
death? 

PRINZIVALLE 

For  the  first,  I  have  no  country.  If  I  had, 
I  do  not  think  I  should  have  sold  it  for  my 
love,  whatever  that  love  had  been.  I  am 
but  a  hired  soldier,  faithful  to  those  who 
keep  faith  with  him,  but  who  betrays  when 
he  .finds  himself  betrayed.  ...  I  have  been 
falsely  accused  by  the  commissaries  of  Flor- 
[90] 


MONNA    VANNA 


ence,  condemned  without  a  trial  by  a  com- 
monwealth of  merchants — you  know  their 
ways  as  well  as  I  do.  I  knew  that  I  was 
lost.  What  I  have  done  this  night,  far  from 
being  my  ruin,  may  save  me — if  any  chance 
can  yet  save  me. 

VANNA 
Then  you  sacrificed  no  great  thing? 

PRINZIVALLE 

Nothing.  I  owed  it  you  to  tell  you.  It 
would  displease  me  to  buy  a  single  one  of 
your  smiles  by  falsehood. 

VANNA 

That  is  well,  Gianello;  that  is  worth  more 
than  love  and  its  most  triumphant  proofs. 
You  shall  not  need  to  seek  the  hand  that 
shrank  from  you;  ...  it  is  here.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Ah!  it  would  have  given  me  more  joy  if 
love  had  won  it  for  me.  .  .  .  But  what  matters 
it,  since,  after  all,  I  hold  it,  Vanna?  I  gaze 


MONNA    VANNA 


upon  its  ivory  whiteness,  I  breathe  its  life,  I 
drink  in  for  a  moment  the  sweet  intoxica- 
tion of  an  illusion — I  clasp  its  warm  fresh- 
ness— see,  I  take  it  and  stretch  it  out  or  close 
it  at  my  will,  as  though  it  would  answer  me 
in  the  secret,  magic  tongue  of  lovers.  I 
cover  it  with  kisses,  and  you  do  not  with- 
draw it.  ...  You  are  not  angry  with  me  for 
putting  you  to  this  cruel  test?  .  .  . 

VANNA 

I  should  have  done  the  same  thing — a 
little  better  or  a  little  worse — had  I  been 
in  your  place. 

PRINZIVALLE 

But  when  you  yielded  to  come  to  my  tent, 
you  knew  that  I  was  .  .  .  ? 

VANNA 

No  one  knew.  There  were  strange-enough 
stories  of  the  leader  of  our  foes.  Some 
would  have  you  a  horrible  old  man;  oth- 
ers, a  young  prince  of  wonderful  beau- 

ty 

[92] 


MONNA    VANNA 


PRINZIVALLE 

But  Guide's  father — he  had  seen  me;  did 
he  tell  you  naught? 

VANNA 

Not  a  word. 

PRINZIVALLE 

You  did  not  ask  him? 

VANNA 

No. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Then,  when  you  came  thus,  at  night, 
defenceless,  to  give  yourself  into  the 
hands  of  an  unknown  barbarian,  did  not 
your  fair  body  tremble,  your  heart  stand 
still  with  fear? 

VANNA 

No — there  was  no  help  for  it. 

PRINZIVALLE 

And  when  you  saw  me,  you  did  not  hesi- 
tate? 

[93] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

You  have  forgotten?  I  saw  nothing  at 
first — these  bandages  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Ay,  but  afterwards,  Vanna,  when  I  put 
them  aside?  .  .  . 

VANNA 

That  was  another  thing  —  and  I  knew 
then.  .  .  .  But  you  —  when  you  saw  me 
enter  your  tent,  what  was  your  design? 
Did  you  mean  in  truth  to  abuse  our  pitiable 
distress  to  the  end? 

PRINZIVALLE 

Ah  I  I  knew  not  too  well  what  I  meant  to 
do.  I  felt  that  I  was  lost — and  I  desired  to 
drag  with  me  all  I  could.  .  .  .  And  I  hated 
you,  because  of  the  love.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  should 
have  gone  to  the  end  had  it  not  been  you.  .  . . 
Yet  any  other  would  have  seemed  odious  to 
me — you  yourself  would  have  had  to  be 
other  than  you  are.  ...  I  lose  my  reason 
when  I  think  of  it.  ...  One  word  would  have 
been  enough  that  was  different  from  your 
[94] 


MONNA    VANNA 


words — one  gesture  that  was  not  yours — 
the  slightest  thing  would  have  inflamed 
my  hate  and  let  loose  the  monster.  But 
when  I  saw  you,  I  saw  in  that  same  moment 
that  it  was  impossible. 

VANNA 

I  saw  it  likewise,  and  I  feared  no  longer; 
.  .  .  we  understood  each  other  without  need 
of  words.  It  is  strange.  ...  I  think  I  should 
have  done  even  as  you  if  I  had  loved  as  you. 
...  It  seems  to  me  at  times  that  I  am  in  your 
place,  that  it  is  you  that  listen  and  I  that 
speak  what  you  have  spoken.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

I,  too,  Vanna,  from  the  first  moment  I  felt 
that  the  wall  which  shuts  us  off,  alas!  from 
all  other  creatures  grew  transparent — that  I 
plunged  my  hands,  that  I  bathed  my  eyes 
in  it  as  in  a  clear  brook — that  I  drew  them 
out  again  and  streams  of  light  flowed  from 
them,  streams  of  confidence  and  sincerity. 
Methought  that  men  were  somehow  changed 
— that  I  had  been  deceived  in  their  true  nat- 
[951 


MONNA    VANNA 


ure  until  this  day.  .  .  .  Above  all,  I  thought 
that  I  myself  was  other  than  of  old — that  I 
emerged  at  last  from  a  long  imprisonment 
— the  doors  were  parted,  flowers  and  green 
leaves  took  the  place  of  iron  bars,  the 
sky  stooped  and  drew  up  to  it  all  the 
heavy  stones  that  had  shut  me  in,  and 
the  pure  air  of  morning  penetrated  at  last 
into  my  heart  and  bathed  my  love  in  its 
fresh  fragrance.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

I  felt  a  change,  too.  ...  I  marvelled  that 
I  could  speak  to  you  as  I  have  spoken  since 
the  first  moment.  ...  I  am  silent  by  nature — 
I  have  never  spoken  thus  to  any  man,  unless 
it  be  to  Marco,  Guide's  father.  .  .  .  And  even 
with  him  it  is  not  the  same.  He  has  a  thou- 
sand dreams  that  take  up  all  his  mind,  .  .  . 
and  we  have  talked  but  a  few  times.  The 
others  have  always  a  desire  in  their  eyes  that 
will  not  suffer  one  to  tell  them  that  one  loves 
them  and  would  fain  know  what  they  have 
in  their  hearts.  In  your  eyes,  too,  a  longing 
burns;  but  it  is  not  the  same — it  does  not 
[961 


MONNA    VANNA 


affright  me  nor  fill  me  with  loathing.  I  felt 
at  once  that  I  knew  you  before  I  remem- 
bered that  I  had  ever  seen  you.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Could  you  have  found  it  in  your  heart  to 
love  me  if  my  evil  destiny  had  not  brought 
me  back  too  late? 

VANNA 

If  I  told  you  that  I  could  have  loved  you, 
would  not  that  be  to  love  you  now,  Gianello  ? 
And  you  know,  as  I  know,  that  such  a  thing 
may  not  be.  But  we  are  parleying  here  as 
though  we  were  in  a  desert  island.  ...  If  I 
were  alone  in  the  world,  there  would  be 
other  things  to  say.  But  we  forget  too  soon 
all  that  another  suffers  while  we  are  here, 
smiling  over  the  past.  When  I  left  the  gates 
of  Pisa,  the  grief  of  Guido,  the  anguish  of  his 
voice,  the  pallor  of  his  face —  ...  I  can  wait 
no  longer!  The  dawn  must  be  near,  and  I 
am  eager  to  know.  .  .  .  But  I  hear  steps;  .  .  . 
some  one  brushes  the  tent;  and  chance  it- 
self has  more  heart  than  we.  They  whis- 
7  [97  1 


MONNA    VANNA 


per    at    the    entrance.    .    .    .    Hark!    hark! 
What  is  it  ? 

[Hasty  steps  and  low  voices  are  heard 

outside  the  tent ;  then  VEDIO'S  voice 

heard  off. 

VEDIO 
Master!  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

It  is  Vedio's  voice.  Enter!  What  brings 
you? 

[VEDIO  appears  in  door  of  tent. 

VEDIO 

I  have  run  hither.  .  .  .  Master,  fly!  It  is 
time  now.  .  .  .  Messer  Maladura,  the  second 
commissary — 

PRINZIVALLE 

He  was  at  Bibbiena.  .  .  . 

VEDIO 

He  has  returned.  .  .  .  He  brings  six  hun- 
dred men  —  they  are    Florentines  —  I    saw 
[98] 


MONNA    VANNA 


them  pass.  .  .  .  The  camp  is  in  a  ferment.  .  .  . 
He  brings  orders — proclaims  you  traitor.  .  .  . 
He  seeks  Trivulzio.  ...  I  fear  lest  he  may 
find  him  before  you  can.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Come,  Vanna.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Whither? 

PRINZIVALLE 

Vedio,  with  two  trusty  men,  shall  lead 
you  back  to  Pisa. 

VANNA 

And  you — whither  will  you  go? 

PRINZIVALLE 

I  know  not  yet — the  world  is  wide  enough 
to  offer  me  a  refuge. 

VEDIO 

Master,  have  a  care!  They  hold  all  the 
country-side  around — and  all  Tuscany  is  full 
of  spies.  .  .  . 

[99] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

Come  to  Pisa. 

PRINZIVALLE 

With  you? 

VANNA 

Yes. 

PRINZIVALLE 

I  cannot. 

VANNA 

If  only  for  a  few  days.  .  .  .  Thus  you  would 
escape  the  first  pursuit.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

And  your  husband?  .  .  . 

VANNA 

He  knows  the  laws  of  hospitality  as  well 
as  you. 

PRINZIVALLE 

He  will  believe  you  when  you  tell  him? . . . 

VANNA 

Yes.  .  .  .  If  he  did  not  believe  me —  .  .  . 
But  that  is  not  possible.     Come. 
[  100] 


MONNA    VANNA 


PRINZIVALLE 

Nay.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Why?     What  do  you  fear? 

PRINZIVALLE 

It  is  for  you  that  I  fear. 

VANNA 

For  me  the  danger  is  the  same  whether  I 
go  alone  or  you  are  with  me.  It  is  you  that 
should  fear.  You  have  saved  Pisa — 'tis  but 
just  if  she  save  you.  You  come  beneath  my 
guardianship — I  will  answer  for  you. 

PRINZIVALLE 

I  will  go. 

VANNA 

That  is  the  best  proof  your  love  could  give 
me.  Come.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

But  your  wound? .  .  . 

VANNA 

Yours  is  far  graver. 

[101] 


MONN  A    VAN  NA 


PRINZIVALLE 

Think  not  of  mine — it  is  not  the  first. 
But  yours — it  would  seem  that  the  blood  . .  . 
[Puts  out  his  hand  as  if  to  throw  aside 
her  cloak. 

VANNA 

[Checks  him  and  gathers  it  more  closely 
about  her.}  No,  no,  Gianello  ...  we  are  ene- 
mies no  longer.  ...  I  am  cold. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Ah !  I  had  half  forgotten  that  you  are  but 
thinly  clad  to  brave  the  night  air — and  I  am 
the  barbarian  that  has  brought  it  so.  But 
yonder  are  the  coffers  in  which  I  laid  for  you 
the  booty  of  the  war.  Here  are  robes  of 
gold,  mantles  of  brocade.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

[Catches  up  some  veils  at  random  and  wraps 
them  about  her}  Nay,  these  will  suffice.  I  am 
in  haste  to  save  you.  Come,  throw  back 
the  curtains  of  the  tent.  .  .  . 

[PRINZIVALLE,    followed    by    VANNA, 
[102] 


MONNA    VANNA 


goes  to  the  entrance  and  throws  back 
curtains.  A  confused  noise,  over  all 
of  which  is  heard  a  sound  of  distant 
bells,  breaks  the  silence  of  the  night. 
Through  the  undulating  curtains  of 
the  tent  Pisa  is  seen  on  the  horizon, 
all  illuminated,  with  occasional  fire- 
works, making  a  great  spot  of  bright- 
ness amid  the  night  which  is  still 
dark. 

PRINZIVALLE 

Look,  Vanna! — look! 

VANNA 

What  is  it,  Gianello?  Ah,  I  see!  They 
are  the  bonfires  lit  to  celebrate  your  work. 
The  walls  are  covered  with  them,  the  ram- 
parts flame,  the  campanile  blazes  like  a  joy- 
ous torch!  All  the  towers  throw  answering 
splendors  back  at  the  stars !  The  streets  are 
lanes  of  brightness  in  the  sky.  ...  I  know 
their  outlines ;  I  can  follow  them  as  clearly 
as  when  by  day  I  trod  their  stones.  .  .  .  There 
is  the  Piazza  with  its  fiery  dome — and  the 
£103] 


MONNA    VANNA 


Campo  Santo  like  an  island  of  shadow.  Life, 
which  seemed  gone  forever,  comes  quickly 
back,  shoots  up  the  spires,  rebounds  from 
the  stones,  overflows  the  walls  and  floods  the 
country-side — comes  to  meet  us  and  to  lead 
us  home.  Hearken ! .  . .  Do  you  not  hear  the 
cries,  the  wild  joy  that  mounts  and  mounts 
as  if  the  sea  were  flooding  into  Pisa — and  the 
bells  sing  out  as  on  my  marriage  morn  ?  Ah ! 
I  am  too  happy  before  this  joy  that  I  owe  to 
him  who  has  loved  me  best  of  all!  Come, 
my  Gianello!  [Kisses  him  on  the  forehead.] 
That  is  the  only  kiss  I  may  give  you.  .  .  . 

PRINZIVALLE 

Ah,  my  Giovanna!  It  passes  the  fairest 
that  my  love  had  hoped!  .  .  .  But  what  is 
this?  You  falter — your  knees  tremble.  .  .  . 
Come,  lean  on  me;  throw  your  arm  about 
my  neck.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

It  is  nothing.  ...  I  will  follow  you.  ...  I 
asked   too    much    from    a   mere    woman's 
strength.  .  .  .  Support  me,  carry  me,  if  need 
[104] 


MONNA    VANNA 


be,  that  nothing  may  delay  our  first  happy 
steps.  .  .  .  Ah,  how  fair  the  night  is — and  the 
dawn  will  soon  be  here!  Hasten — it  is 
time.  .  .  .  We  must  enter  before  the  joy  has 
faded.  .  .  . 

[They  exit,  his  arm  about  her. 


CURTAIN 


MONNA    VANNA 


ACT    III 


SCENE. — A  hall  of  state  in  the  palace  of  GUIDO 
COLONNA.  Lofty  windows,  marble  col- 
umns, porticos,  canopies,  etc.  Up  right 
a  great  terrace,  whose  balustrades  bear 
huge  vases  full  of  -flowers ;  to  it  leads  up 
a  double  staircase  outside.  In  centre, 
between  the  columns,  large  marble  steps 
lead  up  to  the  same  terrace,  from  which 
a  view  over  the  city  is  supposed  to  be 
afforded.  A t  rise  of  curtain,  enter  GUIDO , 
MARCO,  BORSO,  and  TORELLO. 

GUIDO 

HAVE  done  as  you  willed, 
as  she  willed,  the  will  of 
all;  now  it  is  my  turn.     I 
have   kept  silence,  effaced 
myself,  held  my  breath,  as 
,  a  coward  does  when  thieves 
are  ransacking  the  house.    And  I  have  been 
I  107  1 


MONNA    VANNA 


honest  in  my  abasement !  You  have  made  a 
scrupulous  merchant  out  of  me !  See,  yonder 
is  the  dawn.  ...  I  have  not  moved  till  now. 
I  have  weighed  and  counted  the  infamy.  It 
was  needful  to  do  honor  to  the  bargain,  and 
to  pay  the  price  of  the  food  you  eat — to  give 
the  buyer  the  last  moments  of  this  noble 
night!  Ah,  the  price  was  not  too  heavy  foi 
so  much  corn,  so  many  oxen.  .  .  .  Now  I  have 
paid  the  price,  and  you  have  eaten,  I  am 
free.  Once  more  I  am  the  master,  and  ] 
issue  from  my  shame.  .  .  . 

MARCO 

I  know  not  what  you  would  do,  my  son, 
and  none  has  the  right  to  stand  in  the  path 
of  a  grief  like  yours.  Nor  can  any  soothe 
it ;  the  boundless  happiness  that  springs  from 
it,  that  surrounds  you  on  every  side,  I  know 
well  can  only  render  your  first  tears  more 
burning.  .  .  .  Now  that  the  city  is  saved,  we 
go  nigh  to  regret  the  safety  that  has  cost  so 
dear — in  our  own  despite,  we  bow  our  heads 
in  the  presence  of  him  who  alone,  unjustly, 
bears  the  penalty.  And  yet,  if  yesterday 
[  108  ] 


MONNA    VANNA 


could  return,  I  must  still  act  as  I  acted  then, 
mark  out  the  same  victims,  and  urge  the 
same  injustice;  for  the  man  who  would  be 
just  can  do  no  more  than  pass  his  life  in  the 
choice  between  two  or  three  evils,  which  is 
the  greater.  ...  I  know  not  what  words  to 
speak;  but  if  my  voice,  once  loved,  can 
penetrate  once  more  the  heart  that  always 
listened  to  it,  I  would  beg  of  you,  my  son, 
not  to  follow  blindly  the  first  counsels  of 
your  misfortune  and  your  wrath.  Await  at 
least  the  passing  of  the  hour  that  makes 
us  speak  irrevocable  words.  Vanna  will  re- 
turn. .  .  .  Judge  her  not  to-day — repulse  no 
suppliant — do  nothing  that  cannot  be  re- 
called. All  that  a  man  does  under  the  press- 
ure of  too  great  a  grief  is  so  naturally  and  so 
cruelly  irreparable!  Vanna  will  return,  de- 
spairing, yet  happy.  .  .  .  See  her  not  on  her 
return  if  you  do  not  feel  the  strength  to 
speak  to  her  as  you  would  have  done  had 
she  returned  a  week  ago  from  some  absence. 
For  us  poor  mortals,  the  sport  of  so  many 
greater  forces,  there  is  so  much  virtue,  so 
much  wisdom  and  justice,  in  the  passing  of 
[  109] 


MONNA    VANNA 


a  few  hours.  The  only  words  that  count, 
the  words  that  we  should  look  to  when 
misfortune  blinds  us,  are  those  which  we 
shall  speak  after  we  have  understood  all,  and 
pardoned  and  love  once  more.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Is  that  all?  Here  is  an  end!  It  is  no 
longer  the  hour  of  honeyed  words,  and  there 
is  no  one  now  whom  they  can  deceive.  Once 
more  I  have  stood  by  while  you  said  v/hat 
you  had  to  say  to  me — I  was  curious  to 
know  what  your  wisdom  had  to  offer  me  in 
exchange  for  my  life  that  it  has  so  skilfully 
destroyed.  And  this  is  what  it  gives  me! 
To  wait,  to  have  patience,  to  accept,  to  for- 
get, to  pardon,  and  to  weep!  No — it  is  too 
poor  an  exchange !  I  had  rather  not  be  wise. 
I  must  have  more  than  words  to  lift  me  from 
my  shame.  What  I  am  about  to  do  is  sim- 
ple— a  few  years  back  and  you  would  have 
laid  it  upon  me.  There  is  a  man  who  has 
taken  Vanna  from  me — Vanna  is  no  longer 
mine  while  this  man  lives.  I  follow  other 
rules  than  those  of  the  grammars.  I  obey 
[no] 


MONNA    VANNA 


the  great  law  that  governs  every  man  who 
has  a  living  heart  in  his  breast.  .  .  .  Pisa  has 
store  of  arms  and  victual.  I  will  have  my 
part  of  the  arms.  From  this  day  her  soldiers 
belong  to  me — the  best  of  them,  those  that  I 
enlisted  and  paid  from  my  own  purse.  I  owe 
her  nothing,  and  I  claim  what  is  mine.  They 
will  come  back  to  her  only  after  they  shall 
have  done  what  I  demand  of  them  in  my 
turn.  For  the  rest,  .  .  .  Vanna  I  pardon — or 
I  will  pardon  her  when  he  shall  be  no  more. 
She  was  deceived — she  erred  fearfully,  yet, 
after  all,  heroically.  There  were  those  who 
played  for  evil  upon  her  charity  and  great- 
ness of  soul.  It  is  well — all  this  may,  I  will 
not  say  be  forgotten,  but  recede  so  far  into 
the  distance  of  the  past  that  even  the  love 
that  seeks  it  may  not  be  able  to  find  it.  But 
there  is  one  that  I  shall  never  see  without 
shame  and  loathing.  There  is  here  a  man 
whose  only  mission  was  to  be  the  guide  and 
the  stay  of  a  great  and  noble  happiness, 
and  he  became  its  enemy  and  its  ruin.  You 
shall  see  a  horrible  thing,  yet  just — a  son 
who,  in  a  world  turned  upside  down,  judges 


MONNA    VA:NNA 


his  own  father,  curses  him,  denies  him, 
drives  him  from  his  presence,  despises  him, 
and  hates  him! 

MARCO 

You  shall  curse  me,  my  son,  if  you  do  but 
pardon  her.  If  in  your  eyes  that  has  been 
an  unpardonable  fault  which  has  saved  so 
many  lives,  the  fault  is  mine,  the  heroism 
that  of  others.  .  .  .  My  counsel  was  good; 
yet  it  was  easy,  since  I  took  no  part  in  the 
sacrifice.  Now  that  it  robs  me  of  all  I  held 
most  dear,  it  wears  a  better  aspect.  You 
have  judged  according  to  your  lights,  ...  as 
I  should  have  judged  were  I  younger.  ...  I 
go,  my  son ;  you  will  see  me  no  more.  I  can 
understand  that  the  sight  of  me  is  more  than 
you  are  able  to  bear;  but  I  shall  hope  to  see 
you  again  when  you  shall  not  see  me.  .  .  . 
Since  I  go  without  daring  to  hope  that  I  shall 
live  to  see  the  hour  when  you  will  pardon  me 
the  wrong  I  have  done  you — for  I  have  lived 
long  enough  to  know  that  forgiveness  is  slow 
to  those  who,  like  you,  are  in  the  mid-course 
of  life — since  I  go  thus,  leaving  nothing  that 

[112] 


MONNA    VANNA 


any  man  can  envy  me,  let  me  at  least  be  sure 
that  I  bear  with  me  all  the  hatred,  all  the 
bitterness,  all  the  cruel  memories  of  your 
heart — that  none  remain  for  her  when  she 
returns.  ...  I  make  but  one  prayer  to  you. 
.  .  .  Let  me  see  her  once  more  throw  herself 
into  your  arms — then  I  will  go  without  a 
murmur,  without  calling  you  unjust.  It  is 
well  that  amid  the  tide  of  human  misery  the 
old  shall  take  upon  their  shoulders  all  that 
they  can  bear — they  have  but  a  few  more 
steps  to  take  before  they  are  eased  of  their 
burden.  .  .  . 

[During  MARCO'S  last  words  a  great, 
confused  noise  has  sprung  up  with- 
out. In  the  silence  of  the  night  it 
grows,  draws  nearer,  and  becomes 
more  distinct.  At  first  a  mere  mur- 
mur of  expectation,  it  is  heard  soon 
to  be  composed  of  the  acclamations  of 
a  multitude,  distant  at  first,  but  draw- 
ing nearer.  Then,  through  the  vague 
uproar,  cries  are  heard  more  and 
more  distinctly  of  "Vanna!" 
"Vanna!"  "Our  Monna  Van- 
8  ii 


MONNA    VANNA 


na  !  "  "  Glory  to  Monna  Vanna  !  " 
"  Vanna  !"  "  Vanna  /"  "  Van- 
na!" and  so  on.  MARCO  goes 
quickly  to  the  steps  which  lead  up 
to  the  terrace. 

It  is  Vanna!     She  comes  —  she  is  here! 

They   cry  her  name  —  they  welcome   her! 

Hark!  .  .  . 

[BORSO  and  TORELLO  follow  him  up 
on  to  the  terrace,  while  GUIDO  stands 
alone,  leaning  against  a  column,  with 
a  far-off  look  in  his  eyes.  The 
noise  without  redoubles  and  comes 
nearer.  MARCO  looks  down  from  the 
terrace. 

The  squares,  the  streets,  the  byways  are 
full  of  heads  and  waving  arms!  The  stones, 
the  very  tiles  of  the  roofs,  are  changed  into 
men!  But  where  is  Vanna?  I  see  but  a 
cloud  that  parts  a  moment  and  closes  again. 
.  .  .  Borso,  my  poor  old  eyes  cheat  my  love. 
.  .  .  Age  and  tears  and  sorrow  have  blinded 
them ; . . .  they  cannot  find  the  only  face  they 
[114] 


MONNA    VANNA 


seek.     Where  is  she?     Have  you  seen  her? 
Which  way  must  I  go  to  meet  her? 

BORSO 

[Restrains  him.]  No,  go  not  down.  .  .  .  The 
multitude  is  too  dense  and  cannot  be  held 
back.  They  are  crushing  women,  trampling 
children  under  foot.  And  it  is  useless  to  go 
— she  will  be  here  before  you  could  reach 
her.  She  draws  nigh — yonder  she  is.  She 
lifts  her  head  and  sees  us.  .  .  .  She  quickens 
her  pace;  .  .  .  she  looks  up  and  smiles.  .  .  . 

MARCO 

How  is  it  you  can  see  her  and  I  not?  Ah, 
these  failing  eyes  that  can  distinguish  noth- 
ing clearly !  For  the  first  time  I  curse  the  old 
age  that  has  shown  me  so  many  things  only 
to  hide  this  from  me!  But  if  you  see  her, 
tell  me — how  looks  she?  Can  you  read  her 

face? 

BORSO 

She  comes  in  triumph  —  the  brightness 
of  her  presence  lights  up  the  throng  that 
presses  after  her.  .  .  . 


MONNA    VANNA 


TORELLO 

But  who  is  yonder  man  that  walks  at  her 

side? 

BORSO 

I  do  not  know  him.  .  .  .  His  face  is  hid- 
den. .  .  . 

MARCO 

Hearken  to  the  madness  of  their  joy! 
All  the  palace  trembles  —  the  flowers  fall 
from  the  great  vases  on  the  balustrade.  The 
very  stones  quiver  beneath  our  feet  as  they 
would  rise  and  carry  us  away  in  this  tu- 
multuous gladness.  .  .  .  Ah!  I  begin  to  see. 
.  .  .  The  throng  has  reached  the  gates — it 
parts  to  one  side  and  the  other.  .  .  . 

BORSO 

Ay,  it  parts  to  make  room  for  her  —  to 
form  a  lane  of  triumph  and  of  love  through 
which  she  may  pass.  They  shower  upon  her 
flowers  and  palms  and  jewels.  .  .  .  Women 
hold  out  their  children  to  be  touched  by  her; 
men  stoop  to  kiss  the  stones  her  feet  have 
pressed.  Have  a  care — they  come,  and  none 
can  hold  them !  We  shall  be  overthrown  if 
[116] 


MONNA    VANNA 


they  mount  the  stairs.  .  .  .  Ah,  the  guards 
rush  in  from  every  side  to  bar  their  passage. 
...  I  will  give  order  to  drive  them  back  and 
close  the  gates,  if  it  may  yet  be  done.  .  .  . 

MARCO 

Nay !  Let  the  universal  gladness  have  its 
way  here  as  in  their  hearts !  It  matters  little 
what  is  overthrown  by  it  when  their  love 
is  so  vast.  They  have  suffered  enough  for 
their  deliverance  to  throw  down  every  bar- 
rier. My  poor,  dear  people!  I  am  carried 
away  and  shout  with  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  Vanna! 
My  Vanna!  Is  it  you  I  see -on  the  lowest 
step?  [He  moves  to  go  and  meet  her,  but 
BORSO  and  TORELLO  hold  him  back.]  Has- 
ten, hasten,  Vanna!  They  will  not  let  me 
go  to  you!  They  fear  the  joy.  .  .  .  Come  to 
me,  Vanna! — fairer  than  Judith  and  purer 
than  Lucrece !  Come ,  Vanna ! — come ,  mount 
amid  the  flowers!  .  .  .  [He  runs  to  the  great 
vases  of  flowers  and  pulls  handfuls  of  them, 
which  he  throws  down  the  stairs.]  I,  too,  have 
flowers  in  honor  of  life — I,  too,  bring  my  lilies, 
my  laurels,  and  my  roses  to  crown  its  glory! 


MONN  A    VANNA 


[The  acclamations  become  wilder  than 
ever.  VANNA,  accompanied  by 
PRINZIVALLE,  appears  at  the  top  of 
the  staircase  and  throws  herself  into 
MARCO'S  outstretched  arms  on  the 
top  step.  The  throng  invades  the 
staircase,  the  terrace,  and  the  ap- 
proaches, but  keeps  a  certain  distance 
from  the  group  formed  by  VANNA, 
PRINZIVALLE,  MARCO,  BORSO,  and 
TORELLO. 

VANNA 

Father,  I  am  so  happy!  .  .  . 

MARCO 

[Embracing  her  closely]  And  I,  my  daugh- 
ter, since  I  see  you  once  more.  Let  me  look 
at  you  between  our  kisses.  .  .  .  You  are 
more  radiant  than  if  you  came  from  the 
farthest  springs  of  that  heaven  that  re- 
joices at  your  safe  return.  .  .  .  The  enemy 
has  not  robbed  your  eyes  of  a  single 
ray  of  brightness  nor  your  lips  of  one 
smile.  .  .  . 

[118] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

Father,  I  have  much  to  tell  you.  .  .  .  But 
where  is  Guido?  Before  all  else  I  must  set 
him  free  from  his  torments.  ...  He  knows 

not  yet  .  .  . 

MARCO 

Come,  Vanna  —  yonder  he  stands.  .  .  . 
Come — I  am  thrust  out,  and  it  may  be  just- 
ly; but  there  is  pardon  for  your  splendid 
fault.  ...  I  must  place  you  in  his  arms,  that 
my  last  act,  my  last  glance,  may  find  you  in 
the  midst  of  love.  .  .  . 

[At  this  moment  GUIDO  advances  tow- 
ards VANNA.  She  tries  to  speak,  and 
moves  as  if  to  throw  herself  into  his 
arms  ;  but  he  stops  and  repulses  her 
with  a  harsh  gesture  ;  then  he  speaks 
in  an  abrupt,  strident,  and  imperi- 
ous voice  to  the  others. 

GUIDO 

Leave  us! 

VANNA 

No,  no!    Remain,  all  of  you!    Guido,  you 
do  not  know.  ...  I  must  tell  you,  I  must  tell 
["9J 


MONNA    VANNA 


them  all.     Guido,  I  come  back  to  you  un- 
sullied— no  one  can  .  .  . 

[Guioo  breaks  in  upon  her  words,  his 
voice  gradually  rising  with  his  anger. 

GUIDO 

Come  not  near  me — touch  me  not  yet! 
[Advancing  towards  the  crowd,  which  has  be- 
gun to  invade  the  hall,  but  retreats  before  him.] 
Did  you  not  hear  me?  I  have  asked  you 
to  depart  and  leave  us  alone.  You  are  mas- 
ters in  your  own  houses — I  am  master  here. 
Borso  and  Torello,  call  the  guards!  Ah,  I 
read  you  well.  You  would  have  a  spectacle 
to  crown  your  feast — but  you  shall  not  have 
it.  It  is  not  for  you — you  are  unworthy  of 
it.  You  have  meat  and  wine — I  have  paid 
for  all;  what  more  would  you  have?  It  is 
the  least  you  can  do  to  leave  me  with  my 
grief.  Go,  eat  and  drink  —  I  have  other 
cares,  and  I  hold  back  the  tears  that  you 
shall  not  see.  Go,  I  say!  .  .  .  [The  crowd 
silently  begins  to  thin  out]  Some  of  you  still 
linger  ?  [  Takes  his  father  roughly  by  the  arm .] 
You,  too — you,  above  all!  More  than  all 
[  120] 


MONNA    VANNA 


the  others,  since  it  is  through  you  that  this 
has  come.  You  shall  not  see  me  weep!  I 
must  be  alone,  alone  as  in  the  tomb,  to  learn 
that  which  I  have  to  learn!  [Sees  PRINZI- 
VALLE,  who  has  not  moved.]  And  you — who 
are  you,  that  stand  there  like  a  veiled  statue  ? 
Shame,  that  waits  for  me?  Death,  that 
waits  for  me  ?  Know  you  not  that  you  must 
go  ?  [Seizes  a  halberd  from  a  guard.]  Must  I 
drive  you  forth  ?  Ha !  you  grasp  your  sword  ? 
I  wear  a  sword,  too ;  but  I  shall  not  use  it  for 
this.  It  is  kept  for  one  man — for  him  alone. 
.  .  .  He,  indeed.  .  .  .  But  what  are  these  veils 
that  hide  your  face?  I  am  in  no  humor  for 
a  masquerade.  Wait,  I  will  see  who  you  are ! 
[He  approaches  PRINZIVALLE,  intend- 
ing to  uncover  his  face.  VANNA 
throws  herself  between  them. 

VANNA 

Touch  him  not! 

GUIDO 

[Stops,  surprised.]     What,  Vanna — you? 
Whence  is  this  force  you  put  upon  me? 

[121] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

It  is  he  that  saved  me.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Saved  you!  Saved  you,  after — when  it 
was  too  late!  In  good  sooth,  a  noble  deed! 
'Twould  have  been  better  done  .  .  . 

VANNA 

[With  feverish  eagerness.]  Let  me  speak  at 
last!  Guido,  I  pray  you!  .  .  .  One  word,  and 
you  will  know.  .  .  .  He  saved  me,  I  tell  you! 
He  spared  me,  reverenced  me. .  .  .  He  did  not 
touch  me.  .  .  .  He  comes  beneath  my  guar- 
dianship. I  gave  my  word — our  word.  .  .  . 
Wait  till  your  anger  .  .  .  Let  me  speak  to 
you.  .  .  .  He  said  no  word,  lifted  not  a  finger, 
otherwise  than  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

But  who  is  it?     Who  is  it? 

VANNA 

Prinzivalle.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Who — he?    This  man  is  Prinzivalle?  .  .  . 

[122] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

Yes,  yes,  ...  he  is  your  guest,  ...  he  con- 
fides in  you!     And  he  is  our  savior.  .  .  . 
[GuiDO  stands  a  moment   as  if  stu- 
pefied, then  begins    to    speak   with 
an    increasing    violence    and    pas- 
sion that  give  VANNA  no  chance  to 
interrupt  hint. 

GUIDO 

What,  my  Vanna !  Oh,  this  falls  upon  my 
heart  like  a  refreshing  dew  from  the  heaven 
of  heavens!  Vanna!  My  Vanna!  You  are 
great,  and  I  love  you.  At  last  I  understand! 
Ay,  you  were  right.  .  .  .  Since  it  must  be 
done,  this  was  the  way  to  do  it.  At  last  I 
see  your  wisdom,  mightier  than  his  crime! 
I  knew  not,  .  .  .  could  not  foresee.  .  .  . 
Another  would  have  killed  him  as  did  Ju- 
dith with  Holofernes;  but  his  crime  was 
blacker,  and  called  for  a  punishment  more 
dire.  .  .  .  The  manner  of  it  was  to  lead  him 
hither  as  you  have  done,  into  the  midst  of 
his  victims,  that  shall  be  his  executioners! 
Tis  a  splendid  triumph!  He  followed  after 
[123] 


MONNA    VANNA 


your  kisses,  gently,  meekly,  as  a  lamb  that 
follows  after  a  flowering  bough.  What 
matter  kisses  given  with  hate  behind?  Be- 
hold him  in  the  toils!  Ay,  you  were  right 
— had  you  killed  him  there  in  his  tent,  after 
his  hideous  crime,  it  would  scarce  have  suf- 
ficed ;  .  .  .  there  would  have  been  a  doubt 
— none  would  have  seen  the  deed.  All  the 
world  knew  the  abominable  compact,  and 
it  must  likewise  learn  what  it  costs  to  out- 
rage the  nature  of  man  so  far.  .  .  .  How  did 
you  gain  it  —  the  greatest  triumph  that  a 
woman's  honor.  .  .  .  Ah,  you  shall  tell 
them!  [Strides  to  terrace  and  calls  loudly} 
Prinzivalle !  Prinzivalle !  We  hold  the  foe ! 

VANNA 

[Clings  to  him  and  tries  to  restrain  him.] 
No!  no!  Hearken  to  me!  No,  it  is  not  as 
you  think.  .  .  .  Guido,  I  beg  of  you!  .  .  .  You 
are  wrong,  Guido.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

[Shakes  her  off  and  cries  the  louder.]  Un- 
hand me! — you  shall  see!  .  .  .  [To  the  multi- 
[124] 


MONNA    VANNA 


tude.]  You  may  return — I  bid  you!  And 
you,  father,  whose  head  peers  between  the 
balustrades  as  though  to  spy  upon  my  fate, 
as  though  you  waited  for  some  god  to  de- 
scend and  repair  the  evil  you  have  done  and 
bring  back  peace — you,  too,  shall  return  and 
gaze  upon  this  peace  and  a  mighty  wonder! 
The  very  stones  must  see  and  hear  that 
which  is  come  to  pass!  I  hide  myself  no 
longer,  and  my  shame  falls  from  me!  I 
shall  go  hence  purer  than  the  pure — more 
joyous  than  those  who  have  lost  nothing. 
Now  you  may  cry  aloud  my  Vanna's  name! 
And  I  cry  with  you,  and  louder  than  you 
all !  [Pushes  into  the  hall  those  who  appear  on 
the  terrace}  Now  shall  you  have  indeed  a 
spectacle!  There  is  a  justice  in  the  uni- 
verse. .  .  .  Ah,  I  knew  it — but  I  thought  not 
it  could  be  so  swift !  I  looked  to  wait  for  it 
year  after  year.  ...  I  thought  to  watch  for 
it  in  the  forests,  in  the  streets,  at  the  corners 
of  the  lanes.  .  .  .  And  now,  lo!  it  stands  be- 
fore us,  here  in  this  hall!  By  what  stupen- 
dous miracle  .  .  .  ?  We  shall  know  now — it  is 
Vanna's  work;  since  she  is  here,  'tis  to  ren- 


MONNA    VANNA 


der  it  complete.     [Takes  MARCO  by  the  arm.] 
You  see  yonder  man?  .  .  . 

MARCO 
Ay.  .  .  .  Who  is  he? 

GUIDO 

You  ask ?     Yet  you  have  seen  him,  spoken 
with  him,  been  his  easy  messenger?  .  .  . 

[PRINZIVALLE  turns  his  head  towards 
MARCO,  who  recognizes  him. 

MARCO 

Prinzivalle!  .  .  . 

[Movement  in  the  crowd. 

GUIDO 

Ay,  'tis  he  —  he,  in  truth  —  there  is  no 
doubt.  Approach  and  look  upon  him  — 
touch  him  —  speak  to  him.  Perchance  he 
has  some  new  message?  .  .  .  Ah,  it  is  no 
longer  the  proud  and  splendid  Prinzivalle — 
but  pity  hath  gone  far  from  me.  By  a  fiend- 
ish and  unheard-of  plot  he  robbed  me  of  the 
one  thing  in  the  world  that  I  held  dear,  the 
[126] 


MONNA    VANNA 


one  thing  I  could  not  give.  .  .  .  And,  lo!  he  is 
come  hither,  led  by  justice  and  by  skill  fairer 
than  justice,  to  seek  of  me  the  only  recom- 
pense that  I  may  give.  Was  I  not  right  to 
promise  a  miracle?  Approach,  have  no  fear 
— he  shall  not  escape  us.  ...  Yet  close  the 
gates — no  counter-miracle  must  snatch  him 
from  us.  We  will  not  touch  him  for  the  mo- 
ment— we  will  lengthen  out  our  pleasures. 
.  .  .  My  poor  brothers,  you  whom  he  has  so 
tortured,  you  whom  he  would  have  massa- 
cred, you  whose  wives  and  children  he  would 
have  sold  for  slaves,  look  upon  him — this  is 
he;  he  is  mine — he  is  yours,  I  tell  you!  But 
he  has  not  caused  you  to  suffer  like  me — you 
shall  have  him  after  I  have  had  my  fill.  .  .  . 
My  Vanna  brings  him  to  us  that  our  ven- 
geance may  wash  out  our  shame!  [Speak- 
ing more  directly  to  the  crowd}  Ye  are  all 
here,  and  ye  shall  be  witnesses — all  must  be 
made  plain.  .  .  .  Have  you  understood  the 
marvel?  This  man  took  Vanna  for  his  own. 
There  was  naught  else  to  do — ye  all  willed  it 
so — and  ye  sold  her.  ...  I  accuse  none — 
what  is  done  is  done ;  ye  had  the  right  to  pre- 
[127] 


MONNA    VANNA 


fer  your  lives  to  my  poor  happiness.  But 
how  would  ye  have  found  the  way  to  build 
up  love  again  with  that  which  cast  it  down? 
Ye  knew  but  how  to  destroy — and  there  is 
need  to  call  to  life !  This  hard  thing  Vanna 
has  done.  She  found  a  better  deed  to  do 
than  Lucrece  or  Judith — the  one  slew  her- 
self, the  other  did  to  death  the  ravisher.  .  .  . 
Ah,  that  was  too  simple  and  too  silent.  Van- 
na slays  not  in  a  guarded  tent — she  brings  to 
us  the  living  victim,  that  he  may  be  slain  in 
the  sight  of  all.  We  shall  all  join  to  efface  the 
infamy  in  which  we  all  took  part.  .  .  .  How 
did  she  work  this  wonder,  you  ask  ?  She  shall 
tell  us.  ... 

VANNA 

Yes,  I  will  tell  you;  but  the  thing  is  far 
other  than  you  think.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

[Approaches  her  to  kiss  her.]     Let  me  kiss 
you  first,  so  that  all  may  know — 

VANNA 

[Repulses  him  vehemently.]     No,  no,  no — 
[128] 


MONNA    VANNA 


not  yet!  No,  never  again  unless  you  listen 
to  me!  Hearken,  Guido.  ...  It  is  a  question 
now  of  an  honor  more  real  and  a  happiness 
deeper  than  those  that  have  driven  you  wild. 
Ah!  I  rejoice  that  all  my  friends  are  here 
once  more.  They  will  hear  me,  perchance, 
before  you,  understand  me  sooner  than  you 
understand.  Hearken,  Guido  —  I  will  not 
come  within  your  arms  again  until  you 
know.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

[Still  pressing  her.]  Soon  enough  I  shall 
know — but  before  all  I  would — 

VANNA 

Hear  me,  I  say!  I  have  never  lied — but 
to-day,  above  all  days,  I  tell  the  deepest 
truth,  the  truth  that  can  be  told  but  once 
and  brings  life  or  death.  .  .  .  Hearken,  Gui- 
do, then  —  and  look  upon  me,  if  you  have 
never  known  me  until  this  hour,  the  first  and 
only  hour  when  you  have  it  in  your  power 
to  love  me  as  I  would  be  loved.  I  speak  in 
the  name  of  our  life,  of  all  that  I  am,  of  all 
that  you  are  to  me.  ...  Be  strong  enough  to 

9  [129] 


MONNA    VANNA 


believe  that  which  is  incredible.  This  man 
has  spared  my  honor.  .  .  .  He  had  all  power 
— I  was  given  over  to  him.  Yet  he  has  not 
touched  me — I  have  issued  from  his  tent  as 
I  might  from  my  brother's  house. 

GUIDO 
Why? 

VANNA 

Because  he  loved  me.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

Ah,  that  was  what  you  were  to  tell  us — 
that  was  the  miracle!  Ay,  already,  at  the 
first  words,  I  divined  something  beneath 
them  that  I  understood  not.  ...  It  passed 
me  like  a  flash — I  took  no  heed  of  it.  ... 
But  I  see  now  that  I  must  look  more  close- 
ly. [Suddenly  calmer.]  So,  when  he  had 
you  in  his  tent,  alone,  with  a  cloak  for 
all  your  covering,  all  night  long,  you  say 
he  spared  you?  .  .  . 

VANNA 

[Vehemently.]    Even  so! 
[130] 


MONNA    VANNA 


GUIDO 

He  did  not  touch  you,  did  not  kiss  you? 

VANNA 

I  gave  him  one  only  kiss  upon  the  brow — 
and  he  gave  it  me  again.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

On  the  brow!  Look  at  me,  Vanna.  .  .  . 
Am  I  a  man  to  believe  that  the  stars  are 
fragments  of  hellebore,  or  that  one  may  drop 
something  into  a  well  and  put  out  the  moon  ? 
After  what  an  adventure —  Ah !  I  will  not 
say  it — I  would  not  ruin  us  beyond  repair. 
...  I  cannot  see  your  purpose — or  whether 
it  is  the  feverish  madness  of  this  night  of 
horrors  that  has  unbalanced  your  reason — 
or  mine.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

It  is  not  madness — it  is  truth. 

GUIDO 

Truth!  .  .  .  Ah,  that  is  all  I  seek!     But 
it  must  come  with  a  face  of  human  likeness. 
What !  a  man  desires  you  so  utterly  that  he 
[131] 


MONNA    VANNA 


will  betray  his  country,  stake  all  that  he  has 
for  one  single  night,  ruin  himself  forever, 
and  do  it  basely,  do  such  a  deed  as  no  man 
ever  thought  to  do  before  him,  and  make  the 
world  uninhabitable  to  himself  forever !  And 
this  man  has  you  there  in  his  tent,  alone  and 
defenceless,  and  he  has  but  this  single  night 
that  he  has  bought  at  such  a  price — and  he 
contents  himself  with  a  kiss  upon  the  brow, 
and  comes  even  hither  to  make  us  give  him 
credence!  No,  let  us  reason  fairly  and  not 
too  long  mock  at  misfortune.  If  he  asked 
but  that,  what  need  was  there  that  he  should 
plunge  a  whole  people  into  sadness,  sink  me 
in  an  abyss  of  misery  such  that  I  have  come 
from  it  crushed  and  older  by  ten  years  ?  Ah ! 
had  he  craved  but  a  kiss  upon  the  brow,  he 
might  have  saved  us  without  torturing  us 
so!  He  had  but  to  come  like  a  god  to  our 
rescue.  .  .  .  But  a  kiss  upon  the  brow  is  not 
demanded  and  prepared  for  after  his  fash- 
ion. .  .  .  The  truth  is  found  in  our  cries  of 
anguish  and  despair.  ...  I  judge  not — it 
is  my  own  cause,  and  I  see  not  clearly.  .  .  . 
Let  others  judge  and  answer  for  me!  [To 
[  132] 


MONNA    VANNA 


the  crowd.]  You  have  heard.  ...  I  know 
not  why  she  speaks  thus  to  us — but  she  has 
spoken;  and  you  shall  judge.  You  ought  to 
believe  her,  because  she  has  saved  you! 
Tell  me,  can  you  do  it?  Let  all  those  who 
believe  her  issue  from  the  throng  and  stand 
forth  to  give  the  lie  to  human  reason!  I 
would  see  them  and  know  what  such  men 
are  like! 

[MARCO  stands  forth  alone  from  the 
crowd;  among  the  others,  only  timid, 
indistinct  murmurs  are  heard. 

MARCO 
[Strides  to  centre.]     I  believe  her! 

GUIDO 

You  are  their  accomplice  !  But  the 
others — the  others!  Where  are  they  that 
believe  her  ?  [To  VANNA.]  Do  you  hear 
them  ?  Those  whom  you  have  saved  shrink 
back  at  the  thought  of  the  laughter  that 
should  fill  the  hall  —  they  murmur,  and 
dare  not  show  themselves.  And  I  —  I 
ought — 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

They  are  not  bound  to  believe  me — but 
you,  since  you  love  me — 

GUIDO 

I,  since  I  love  you,  must  be  your  dupe! 
Nay,  listen  to  me.  .  .  .  My  voice  is  not  the 
same — my  wrath  has  died  down.  .  .  .  These 
things  break  a  man's  strength — I  am  becom- 
ing like  a  graybeard.  ...  It  is  old  age  and 
weakness  of  mind  that  shall  take  the  place 
of  my  anger  that  is  gone  from  me.  ...  I  do 
not  know.  ...  I  seek,  I  grope  with  trembling 
fingers  to  close  them  upon  what  remains  of 
my  poor  happiness.  ...  I  have  no  more  but  a 
hope,  so  frail  that  I  have  not  the  heart  to 
strangle  it.  A  word  shall  kill  it — and  yet 
my  anguish  must  hazard  that  word.  Vanna, 
I  was  wrong  not  to  think  of  this  throng  when 
I  asked  you.  ...  I  forgot  your  shamefaced- 
ness  that  could  not  speak  out.  .  .  .You  could 
not  tell  them  what  the  monster  did.  .  .  .  Ay, 
the  question  should  have  waited  till  we  were 
alone — then  you  would  have  avowed  the 
horrible  truth.  .  .  .  But  I  know  it,  alas!  too 
[i34] 


MONNA    VANNA 


well — and  these  others  know  it.  ...  Why 
seek  to  hide  it,  Vanna?  It  is  too  late.  Now 
there  is  no  choice  —  shame  must  triumph 
over  itself.  You  will  not  think  ill  of  me — 
you  will  understand.  ...  At  such  times  rea- 
son knows  no  longer — 

VANNA 

Look  in  my  eyes,  Guido!  In  their  gaze  I 
place  all  my  strength,  all  my  faithfulness,  all 
that  I  owe  you  for  the  last  time.  It  is  not 
shame  that  speaks — it  is  the  truth.  This 
man  touched  me  not. 

GUIDO 

Good — excellently  good.  .  .  .  There  is  no 
more  to  say.  .  .  .  Now  I  know  all.  Yes,  it  is 
the  truth — or  rather  it  is  love!  I  under- 
stand. .  .  .  You  have  wished  to  save  him.  .  .  . 
I  know  not  what  a  single  night  can  have 
wrought  in  the  woman  I  loved  so  much.  .  .  . 
But  this  was  not  the  way  to  save  him.  .  .  . 
[Raises  his  voice.]  Hear  me,  all  of  you,  for 
the  last  time!  I  am  about  to  make  an  oath. 
I  cling  a  moment  yet  on  the  very  brink  of  a 

[135] 


MONNA    VANNA 


bottomless  abyss — soon  my  hands  will  lose 
their  hold.  ...  I  would  not  ruin  her.  .  .  .  Do 
you  hear  me?  My  voice  has  lost  its  vigor. 
.  .  .  Draw  nearer  yet.  .  .  .  Ye  see  this  wom- 
an— this  man  ?  It  is  assured  that  they  love 
each  other.  .  .  .  Do  not  forget — I  weigh  each 
word  as  they  measure  out  a  remedy,  drop  by 
drop,  at  the  bedside  of  a  dying  man.  .  .  . 
They  shall  go  hence  by  my  consent,  freely, 
with  no  outrage,  without  harm — they  shall 
carry  with  them  all  that  they  desire.  Make 
a  path  before  them  if  you  choose,  and  sprin- 
kle it  with  flowers.  .  .  .  They  shall  go  wher- 
ever love  may  guide  their  footsteps — only  so 
that  this  woman  tell  me  the  truth  which  is 
the  only  possible  one,  the  only  thing  that  I 
still  love  in  her,  and  that  she  owes  me  for 
what  I  give  her.  .  .  .  You  hear  me,  Vanna? 
Answer  me — did  this  man  have  your  honor  ? 
Yes  or  no — one  word !  That  is  all  I  ask.  It 
is  neither  a  judgment  nor  a  trap — I  have 
taken  my  oath,  and  all  are  witnesses.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

I  spoke  the  truth.  ...  He  touched  me  not. 
[136] 


MONNA    VANNA 


GUIDO 

Good — you  have  spoken — you  have  con- 
demned him.  There  is  no  more  to  do.  Now 
I  rouse  myself.  .  .  .  [Turns  to  the  guards  and 
points  to  PRINZIVALLE.]  This  man  is  mine  ! 
Take  him,  bind  him,  go  down  with  him  into 
the  uttermost  dungeons  that  lie  beneath  us. 
I  go  with  you.  [To  VANNA.]  You  shall  see 
him  no  more.  Soon  I  shall  return  to  tell 
you  the  real  truth  that  his  last  words  shall 
reveal  to  me.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

[Rushes  among  the  guards,  who  seize  PRIN- 
ZIVALLE.] No!  No!  He  is  mine!  I  have 
lied!  I  have  lied!  He  forced  me.  .  .  . 
[Thrusts  the  guards  away.]  Stand  aside — 
do  not  take  my  part !  He  is  mine  alone. 
My  hands  shall —  Ah,  cowardly,  basely, 
he  humbled  me! 

PRINZIVALLE 

[Struggling  to  control  his  voice.]  She 
lies  —  she  lies  to  save  me,  but  no  tort- 
ure— 

[137] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

Silence !  [Turns  to  the  people.]  He  is  afraid ! 
[Approaching  PRINZIVALLE,  as  though  to  bind 
his  hands.]  Give  me  the  cords — give  me 
the  chains,  the  irons!  Now  that  my  hate 
hath  found  a  voice  at  last,  it  is  I  that 
shall  hold  him  fast,  I  that  shall  deliver  him 
up!  [In  a  low  voice  to  PRINZIVALLE,  while 
she  fastens  his  hands.]  Not  a  word!  He 
saves  us — he  unites  us !  I  am  yours — I  love 
you !  Let  me  bind  you — be  sure  that  I  shall 
deliver  you.  I  shall  be  your  keeper.  We 
will  flee.  .  .  .  [Cries  loudly,  as  if  to  force  him  to 
silence.]  Silence!  [To  the  crowd]  He  begs 
for  mercy  under  his  breath!  [Discovers  his 
face]  Look  upon  that  face!  It  still  bears 
the  traces  of  this  night  of  horror!  [Turns 
back  her  cloak  on  her  blood-stained  shoulder] 
And  I  bear  them  likewise!  Oh,  this  fearful 
night  of  love !  .  .  .  Look  upon  him  —  this  is 
the  man — -hateful  and  cowardly!  [The 
guards  move  as  if  to  lead  him  off]  No,  no — 
leave  him  to  me!  He  is  my  victim — he  is 
my  prey !  I  will  have  him  for  myself !  Hold 
him  fast — you  see  he  would  fain  escape ! 
[138] 


MONNA    VANNA 


GUIDO 

Why  came  he  hither?    And  you — why  did 
you  lie? 

VANNA 

[Hesitating,  seeking  for  words.]  I  lied.  .  .  . 
I  know  not.  ...  I  would  not  say.  .  .  .  Listen, 
it  is  now  that —  Yes,  you  shall  understand. 
.  .  .  One  does  not  know,  nor  think,  before- 
hand. .  .  .  When  I  went  there,  I  did  not 
think.  .  .  .  But  what  is  to  be —  Yes,  you 
shall  know  all — to  your  sorrow — but  you  have 
willed  it  so.  .  .  .  Ah,  I  feared  you — I  went  in 
fear  of  love  and  its  despair.  .  .  .  Now,  since 
you  will  it  —  good  —  I  will  tell  you.  [In  a 
calmer  and  more  assured  voice.]  No,  no,  I 
had  not  the  thought  you  spoke  of — I  did  not 
bring  him  to  his  executioners  to  avenge  us 
both.  The  thought  I  followed  was  not  so 
glorious,  but  held  more  of  love  for  you.  I 
thought  to  bring  him  to  a  cruel  death — but 
I  desired  also  that  the  memory  of  this  hid- 
eous night  should  not  weigh  upon  you  to  the 
end  of  our  days.  I  would  have  avenged 
myself  alone,  in  the  darkness — I  would  have 
done  him  to  death,  slowly — you  can  see  how 
[  1393 


MONNA    VANNA 


— little  by  little,  until  his  blood,  falling  drop 
by  drop,  had  washed  out  his  crime.  You 
would  never  have  known  the  hateful  truth; 
and  the  terrible  remembrance  would  not  have 
risen  to  check  our  dearest  kisses.  I  feared 
that  when  you  saw  that  image  you  could 
no  longer  love  me.  I  was  mad,  I  know — I 
asked  too  much.  I  longed  for  the  impossi- 
ble. But  you  shall  know  all.  ...  [Addressing 
the  crowd.]  Since  we  have  come  thus  far, 
and  it  is  too  late  to  spare  our  love,  all  must 
be  understood.  I  will  confess,  and  you  shall 
be  my  judges.  This  is  what  I  did.  .  .  .  Yon- 
der man  used  me  even  as  I  said,  basely,  cow- 
ardly. ...  I  longed  to  slay  him,  and  we 
struggled.  .  .  .  But  he  disarmed  me.  .  .  .  Then 
I  had  a  vision  of  a  deeper  vengeance,  and  I 
smiled  upon  him.  He  trusted  to  my  smiles 
— ah!  what  fools  men  are!  It  is  just  to  de- 
ceive them,  since  they  worship  falsehood. 
When  one  shows  them  life,  they  take  it  for 
death — when  one  offers  them  death,  they 
grasp  at  it  for  life!  He  thought  to  master 
me,  and  I  have  mastered  him !  Behold  him 
already  in  his  tomb — and  I  shall  put  the 
[  140  ] 


MONNA    VANNA 


seals  upon  it!  I  brought  him  hither,  deck- 
ing him  with  kisses  as  a  lamb  with  garlands 
— and  he  is  in  my  hands,  that  shall  never 
loose  their  hold!  Ah,  my  fair  lover  Prinzi- 
valle,  we  shall  have  kisses  such  as  none 
Lave  ever  known! 

GUIDO 

[Approaches  her.]     Vanna!  .  .  . 

VANNA 

Come  close  and  look  at  him !  He  was  full 
of  hope — he  believed  me  when  I  said  I  loved 
him!  He  would  have  followed  me  to  the 
uttermost  hell!  Thus  I  kissed  him.  .  .  . 
[Kisses  PRINZIVALLE  ardently.]  Gianello,  I 
love  you!  Kiss  me  again!  These  are  the 
kisses  that  avail.  .  .  .  [Turning  to  GUIDO.] 
He  returns  them  even  now!  Ah,  laughter  is 
too  near  such  horrors.  .  .  .  Now  he  is  mine — 
mine  before  God  and  the  world !  I  will  have 
him !  It  is  the  price  of  my  night — a  splendid 
price!  .  .  .  [She  staggers  and  leans  against  a 
pillar]  Have  a  care.  ...  I  shall  fall.  ...  I 
am  too  full  of  joy!  [Breathing  with  diffi- 
[141] 


MONNA    VANNA 


culty.]  Father,  I  give  him  into  your  charge 
until  my  strength —  Let  them  lead  him  off 
before —  Let  them  find  a  dungeon  so  deep 
that  no  one  shall  be  able —  And  I  will  have 
the  key — I  will  have  the  key !  At  once — do 
you  hear?  He  is  mine — my  recompense — 
and  I  will  have  him  all  my  own.  .  .  .  Let  no 
man  touch  him.  .  .  .  Guido,  he  is  mine! 
[Takes  a  step  towards  MARCO.]  Father,  he 
is  mine — you  will  answer  for  him  to  me. 
[Looks  fixedly  at  MARCO.]  You  understand, 
father?  You  are  his  guardian  —  let  not  a 
shadow  of  harm  fall  upon  his  face — let  him 
be  given  into  my  hands  as  he  is  now! 
[They  lead  PRINZIVALLE  off.]  Farewell,  my 
Prinzivalle!  Ah,  we  shall  meet  again! 

[GuiDO  is  in  the  midst  of  the  sol- 
diers, who  lead  him  roughly  away. 
VANNA  utters  a  cry,  and  falls  into 
the  arms  of  MARCO,  who  darts  for- 
ward to  catch  her. 

MARCO 

[In  a  low  voice,  bending  over  her.]     Yes, 
Vanna,  I  understand — I  see  the  meaning  of 
[142] 


MONNA    VANNA 


your  lie.  .  .  .  You  have  achieved  the  impossi- 
ble. ...  It  was  at  once  just  and  most  unjust, 
like  all  that  men  do.  .  .  .  And  life  is  right.  .  .  . 
Calm  yourself,  Vanna — there  will  be  need  of 
more  lies,  since  we  are  not  believed.  .  .  .  [To 
GUIDO.]  Guido,  she  calls  you.  .  .  .  Guido, 
she  is  coming  to  herself.  .  .  . 

GUIDO 

[Steps  quickly  forward.]  My  Vanna!  .  .  . 
[Takes  her  in  his  arms.}  She  smiles.  .  .  .  My 
Vanna,  speak  to  me !  I  never  doubted 
you.  ...  It  is  all  over  now — all  shall  be 
forgotten  in  our  splendid  vengeance.  .  .  . 
'Twas  but  an  evil  dream.  .  .  . 

VANNA 

[Opens  her  eyes;  in  a  feeble  voice}  Where 
is  he  ?  .  .  .  Ay,  I  know.  .  .  .  But  give  me 
the  key  —  the  key  of  his  prison.  .  .  .  No 
other  hand  must — 

GUIDO 

The  guards  are  coming — they  will  give  it 
you. 

[i43] 


MONNA    VANNA 


VANNA 

I  must  have  it  alone,  that  I  may  be  sure 
— that  no  one  else —  It  was,  indeed,  an  evil 
dream,  .  .  .  but  a  fairer  one  begins.  .  .  .  Ah! 
a  fairer  one  begins.  . .  . 


CURTAIN 


DATE  DUE 


PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 


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